


The Intelligence Control and Analysis Program

by inkandpaperqwerty



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Geniuses Are Government Property, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Big Brother Derek Morgan, But That's Not What It's Called, Case Fic, Childhood Trauma, Conspiracy Theories, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Family, Family Feels, Father Figure Hotch, Father Figure Rossi, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Medication, Mental Illness, Mood Swings, Mother Figure JJ, Numb3rs References, Panic Attacks, Past Suicidal Spencer, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Protective David Rossi, Protective Derek Morgan, Protective Team, Psychological Breakdown, Psychological Trauma, References to Suicide, Scratching Tic, Several Episodes Are Referenced, Slavery, Slightly Dystopian, Spencer Has Been Isolated for Twelve Years, Spencer Has Depression, Spencer Has Lots of Trauma, Spencer has Anxiety, Spencer is Over-Diagnosed, Spencer is Over-Medicated, Team as Family, discussion of suicide, mental health, nervous tics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-29 17:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 125,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Agent Aaron Hotchner couldn't ask for better agents than David Rossi, Derek Morgan, Emily Prentiss, and Jennifer Jereau. In fact, he prides himself on heading the best team the BAU has to offer. Still, he's not so arrogant he doesn't know when it's time to call for help, so when his team hits a brick wall with a ticking clock, he reaches out to the Intelligence Control and Analysis Program. ICAP sends him a mountain of files, all of them good candidates, but Hotch is repeatedly drawn to the same file. Genius #2036334-4383 has three doctorates and a high success rate with the Bureau, though he's never been in the field. According to his file, Genius doesn't play well with others, but Hotch doesn't see that posing much of a problem. Besides, it's a temporary arrangement.What's the worst that could happen?





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Hotch let out a sigh and massaged his temple, unsure of how to answer Rossi’s question. “I… would really prefer not to, but I don’t think we have a choice. We’ve been on this case for five days, and we can’t get a single lead. If the unsub keeps to his schedule, we’ve got twenty-four hours to stop him before another four bodies show up.”

Granted, three of those bodies were already dead, but they still had time to save the fourth.

Rossi looked over Hotch’s shoulder and scanned the files spread out on the desk. “Hey, I agree with you. I’m not against having a genius. You’ve just… always been pretty adamant about the closed nature of the team.”

Hotch grimaced and nodded his head, second-guessing his decision for what had to be the hundredth time. “I know. We operate best without interference.” He shuffled the papers around, setting aside two candidates he knew wouldn’t work out.

“You’ve been that way since Gideon left.” Typical Rossi, he didn’t waste any time beating around the bush. “Things happen, Aaron. You can’t keep psychos from fixating on a single person.”

“I know that, Dave.” Hotch shook his head, not wanting to beat a dead horse with such an important decision on the table. “I just don’t want to upset the balance we have. If we bring someone else in, especially a genius, the team could withdraw, and—”

“The team will put on their big kid pants and get the job done. It’s a temporary situation. We don’t have to keep him or her around indefinitely, we just need to use them as a resource and send them on their merry way.” Rossi waved his hands and wiggled his fingers to illustrate. “Don’t overthink things, Aaron. Pick a genius, make the call, and then join us in the conference room.”

Hotch looked down at the papers again, resisting the urge to let out a heavy sigh. He had done enough sighing; he had to get down to business. “There’s one file I keep putting aside, but then I keep coming back to it.”

Rossi extended a hand, gesturing for the file to be handed over, and Hotch readily obliged.

“Genius #2036334-4383,” Rossi read aloud. “IQ of 187. He’s got three doctorates, and none of them are topics that get censored by the program. He definitely would know all there is to know. He’s consulted on… one thousand and twenty-two different cases?”

Hotch nodded, but his expression was grim. “Keep reading.”

Rossi’s eyes scanned the page, lips moving in silent mumbles. “Is this right?” He looked at the words again, brow furrowing in confusion, and then he lifted his head to look at Aaron. “He’s never been in the field?”

Hotch shook his head, indicating the papers still in Rossi’s hands. “He doesn’t play well with others. He’s on several different medications, and according to his chart, he still can’t interact with the general population. He has no social graces, and he doesn’t like being told what to do.”

“So, don’t get him.” Rossi tossed the file on the desk and put his hands on his hips, staring down at the visibly undecided Hotch. “What brings you back to him?”

Hotch shook his head and lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t know, but I keep picking up the file. I don’t know if it’s the impressive track record, or the number of degrees…” Hotch put his elbows on his desk and rubbed both temples, sneaking a quick glance at the window to make sure none of the others could see him. “There’s this note in his file… this one rule he’s always pushing back against, trying to connive a way around it, and I think we could use it to get his cooperation.”

Rossi rolled his hand to encourage further explanation.

“He wants to make a phone call.” It sounded stupid even as Hotch said it. “He has been asking since he was admitted, almost twelve years ago, to make a phone call. He wants to talk to someone in a facility for geniuses who suffer from various forms of psychosis.”

“You know we can’t allow that. One of the things ICAP was specifically designed to prevent is geniuses contacting each other and putting their heads together.” Rossi gestured to the files on the desk. “There are plenty of good candidates here.”

“I know.” Hotch felt like he was repeating the same phrase over and over. “But what could be so malevolent about a phone call? It’s not as if we can’t listen in or trace the call, and that’s true on both ends if the genius is already inside a government facility. Speaking in code would require previous contact of some sort, and that’s strictly prohibited. And if he wanted to hatch some plan, why would he choose to contact a genius with psychosis? Why not someone mentally stable?” Hotch shook his head slowly, mouth hanging open for a moment as a sort of disbelief washed over his features. “I know just as well as you do that looks can be deceptive, but… it seems so benign, Dave.”

Rossi thought about it for a moment, and then he picked the folder back up. He scanned the words in silence, a soft hum resonating in his throat. “Just a phone call, huh?”

Hotch nodded wordlessly, his gut telling him to call ICAP right then and there. He couldn’t get his mind around the supposed danger, and every report he read only increased his confusion, the incidents seeming more immature and emotionally driven than planned. If Hotch had to take a guess, the genius suffered from mood swings—hence the Seroquel he was on—and that wasn’t a good enough reason. They could handle mood swings.

“Your gut is really in this one, isn’t it?” Rossi arched a brow and then closed the folder, handing it back over with a faint smirk on his lips. “Better make that call.”

Hotch grabbed the paperwork without another word and turned his attention to the task of requesting a genius. Every second spent on transport and paperwork was a second not spent tracking down the unsub, and they couldn’t afford that.

 _I don’t know why I have so many hesitations. It isn’t as if this is a permanent change._ Hotch grabbed the phone from his desk and began to dial, placing his finger by the genius identification number so he would have it ready. _It’s only temporary. If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work. We’ll send him back and try something else, Right now, our priority is catching the unsub._

Hotch let out a faint sigh.

_It’s only temporary._

* * *

Hotch polished off another cup of coffee and looked over the timeline, even though he was certain he could make a perfect copy of it in his sleep. He leaned on the table, tired of standing but knowing if he sat, he would fall asleep. _We have seventeen hours to find her alive… and that’s a generous estimate._

“Hey, Hotch, I think our new toy is here.”

Hotch straightened up and joined Morgan by the window, watching two men with federal badges usher a scrawny young man into the bullpen. They led him toward the conference room while his eyes flickered from place to place, examining everything and wide with fascination.

_I guess this is a new experience for everyone involved._

“Remember what I said, everyone.” Hotch went to the door and grabbed the handle. “Be patient, don’t take anything personally, and give a little grace. This is temporary, and if it means saving Angela Hayes, we’ll tolerate whatever behavior the genius has to offer.”

There were various nods and acknowledgements around the table, and then Hotch pulled the door in.

“Agent Hotchner,” the officer on the other side smiled. “I’m SSA Burke, and this is Genius #2036334-4383. You can drop the number when you talk to him. They all respond to ‘Genius.’” Burke shook hands with Hotch, and there was an amiable glimmer in his eyes, but he looked like he was on edge.

 _He’s probably waiting for Genius to start something._ But Hotch gave the subject no more thought. He moved to shake Genius’ hand, but Genius’ backed away almost immediately.

“I don’t shake hands. You’re going to let me make a phone call?”

Hotch took a moment to process the jump, but he could respect the idea of getting down to business, so he dropped his hand and replied. “Yes, in exchange for your help. We—”

“Deal.” Genius brushed past him and approached the stack of files on the table, grabbing the first one he came to and opening it.

_Well. It begins._

Burke gave Hotch an apologetic look, which Hotch waved off, while the man behind him remained very disinterested in the whole matter. Burke then handed over a small, white bag with a red cross on the side and explained, “This is enough medication for a month, and all the instructions are in there along with a return card. Just call the number on the card when you’re ready to return him.”

Hotch nodded his thanks and took the offered bag, turning around just in time to catch Morgan’s attempt at interaction.

“Do you want us to go over the case—”

“It’s faster if I read it.” Genius didn’t lift his head, running his finger down the page in a matter of seconds before flipping it over and repeating the process.

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up, but he shrugged it off and turned toward Burke, who hadn’t yet followed his uninvolved partner out of the building.

“Is he really reading that fast?” Morgan asked.

Burke nodded once and let out a soft chuckle. “You haven’t lived until you’ve seen this kid read War and Peace before breakfast. Trust me.”

Genius muttered where he was standing, the pile of files he had already read growing steadily higher. “It’s a good read…”

Hotch allowed a slight smile to pull at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t comment. Burke stuck around for another second or two, but then he startled and stepped back, as if he suddenly realized he was wearing out his welcome.

Though honestly, Hotch would have been more than fine with him staying.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” Burke tossed a wave in their direction and walked away, leaving Hotch to close the door behind him.

“This isn’t right.”

Hotch walked over to Genius and looked over his shoulder to see what he was reading. “What isn’t right?”

Genius answered a question with a question. “Did you have a victim in this case you thought was unusual? No, wait, rephrase.” He flipped through multiple files as he spoke, medium-length, brown locks falling into his face. “If I asked you to name an outlier from this case, who would you name?”

“Sheila Taylor.”

“Brittney Parrington.”

Hotch glanced across the table and saw Emily had spoken in unison with him.

Morgan nodded slowly. “I would agree with that.”

It took a second, but JJ and Rossi both nodded along.

“Correct.” Genius held up both pictures before taping them to the center of the whiteboard. He erased everything around it before anyone had the chance to protest and grabbed a marker. “These are the most important victims. If we—”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Morgan waved his hands slightly. “Slow down, pretty boy. How did you come to that conclusion?”

Genius blinked. “I have to explain?” He turned to look at Hotch, something like anxiety and frustration mixed in his otherwise soft, honey-brown eyes. “Does that cut into my call time?”

Hotch shook his head. “No, not at all.”

Genius turned back to look at Morgan and took a deep breath.

Hotch was legitimately scared for a moment, especially when he saw Genius’ hands start to move, and he silently wondered if he had made a terrible mistake.

“You have eight victims, each showing up in a group of four. They have been tortured in ways that lead you to write ‘unsub likely has military background or experience,’ in the margins. I have to take your word on that, and this leads me to—”

“Why do you have to take our word for that?” Rossi asked, swiveling his chair idly to the left and right.

Genius clenched his fists, the expression of frustration on his face almost tantrum-like in nature. Hotch immediately thought of the mood swings, but Genius did little more than stomp his foot and get a little red in the face.

“Stop interrupting. You’re making this take so long.” Genius huffed, blowing his bangs out of his eyes and tapping rapidly on his right temple. “I can’t learn anything beyond the basics of any division of the United States government. That’s the entire point of ICAP: keeping geniuses from overthrowing the government. So, _obviously,_ my knowledge in that area is limited, but I know yours is not, and you’re all relatively intelligent people, so it’s highly unlikely you came to the wrong conclusion about this.”

To his credit, Rossi simply pursed his lips and nodded, utterly unaffected. He didn’t have any trouble letting Genius’ attitude roll over him.

Morgan, on the other hand, already looked like he wanted to wring the kid’s neck, and it had barely been a minute.

“ _Anyway,_ as I was _saying._ ” Genius tapped the whiteboard with his marker. “If this individual is military, he would have to be of a relatively high level to be involved with the enhanced interrogation techniques used on the victims. He’s not just skilled, he’s very skilled. He has an ego, so everything about his killing is going to be a shrine to himself. Knowing that, I took the victims and divided them up based on how a trained individual would take them out.” He held up his hand before JJ could speak. “I said I don’t know about the military; I never said I don’t know how tactical combat works.” He dropped the hand. “He’s not killing them all at the same time, but he’s dropping them all at the same time. It couldn’t represent a rapid-fire gun or an explosive, because those would all cause the instantaneous death of multiple people. You could look at some sort of biological weapon, but the hands-on violence and torture suggests something more focused and clearly targeted.”

Genius turned to the board and started to write and draw as he spoke. “If we look at all the victims, these two stood out not only because they’re the only blondes but because, if you look at their x-rays, you’ll see he broke three of their ribs. He never let the broken ribs be next to each other, meaning he specifically broke them with a fairly thin object. All the other victims had flail chest, but not these two.”

Morgan nodded slightly and opened his mouth, determined to talk whether Genius liked it or not. “Typically, the most important victims are the first or last.”

“Yes, but he knew that. He wanted you to think it was the first or fourth when it’s actually the third.” Genius started to write numbers and stats, drawing lines between the victims and the bubbles containing traits he had listed up to that point. “He tricked you into thinking four was the magic number, because it feeds his ego to outsmart federal agents. But he couldn’t kill without acknowledging himself, so he put the three broken ribs on the third victim in each set. If you take the significance of the third victims, the ego, the military background, and the fact that all four victims were killed days apart but dropped at once, you get to a sniper.”

Genius took a deep breath and turned back around to look at his audience, speaking faster with every passing second. “During a sniper attack, things move insanely fast. After the first shot, no one moves. Everyone is confused, and their first reaction is to look for the source of the sound. After the second shot, it takes the average person one and a half seconds to cognitively process they’re in a potentially deadly situation. It takes, approximately, another .7 seconds for the physical reaction to kick in, by which time, the third shot has already been fired. Anything after the third victim of a sniper attack is a gamble. You can be certain you’ll hit more people after the third, but you don’t get to control who it is anymore. If you’re hiding your true target in a random shooting, you have to kill them first, second, or third.” Genius turned back around to look at the board and took another deep breath. “He didn’t want to make his first victim important, because he knows enough about criminal investigations to know those are the victims you look at the most. So, he applied his sniping techniques to the murder, and he put the most significant kills in the middle. It’s also a taunt to you.” Genius jerked his head over his shoulder. “You have three victims to get the job done, and if you don’t, you lose your window of opportunity, because you can’t predict a random attack. This also explains the gaps between the 1992 killings and the 1996 killings; he’s giving you limited time to outsmart him before he disappears again.”

Hotch did his best to keep the shock off his face. _Did we get a genius or a computer?_

“Now, psychologically speaking, I don’t know that much. I mean, I do textbook-wise, but that’s hardly relevant.” Genius tapped on the pictures of the two women. “They stand out physically—blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin, slight build. Neither of them were employed, and they both filed for divorce six weeks prior to their abductions. You can confirm this for me, but I would bet they had been living off their husband’s paycheck and benefits, divorced him because of his job or something job-related, and were using their circumstance to get financial help. I think the unsub had a wife he felt leeched his money while complaining about the source of said money, a conflict which ultimately lead to her leaving him and finding her way into a lot of funds through less than admirable methods. His ego couldn’t abide that, so he channeled his anger into being a hero for shunted alpha males everywhere.” Genius faced the group again and started to tap on his temple. “So, to recap, start by looking for a blonde woman with blue eyes who divorced a sniper in the mid-to-late eighties; find out who the husband was, and you have your unsub, more or less; may I have my phone call now?”

Hotch was barely able to follow the jump from case to request, and while his initial reaction was to ask for more information, he decided to acquiesce. He could go over the new perspective with the team while the phone call was going on, and if they didn’t find anything, they would put the call on hold and rehash until they did.

“Yes, you may.” It reminded him of _The Music Man_ , and he couldn’t help but feel he had condescended to the incredibly intelligent young man standing before him. “Do you know the number?”

Genius rattled it off immediately, his voice tight with excitement, and the first smile Hotch had seen from him was pulling at his mouth. “Tell them you need to speak with Diana Reid, Patient No. 381614.”

“Diana Reid, 381—”

“614.” Genius was practically shaking when he rushed over to Hotch, hovering nearby while the number was dialed. “I know she’s there. Don’t let them tell you she’s not. She is.”

Hotch nodded slightly, opening his mouth to tell Genius to calm down but being cut off by the receptionist.

“ICAP Sanitarium, how may I direct your call?”

“This is Agent Hotchner, with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I am allowing a genius to have one phone call with Diana Reid, Patient No. 3—”

“81614.”

It took everything Hotch had in him not to physically cover Genius’ mouth, but instead, Hotch concealed the disturbance with a clearing of his throat and continued. “Patient No. 381614. If you could connect me, I would appreciate it.”

“Mmm, Diana Reid, you said?”

“Yes.” Hotch nodded, giving Genius a sharp glare that said to put at least a foot of space between them. “I know the risks associated with genius communication. This call will be monitored.”

“Hold on just a second…” the receptionist mumbled. “Hold on… and… okay, you’re good to go. Wait a few seconds for the line to switch over.”

Hotch handed the phone to Genius with a warning look. “Don’t go far, and don’t whisper. Understand?”

“Yes.” Genius nodded eagerly, barely able to stop himself from snatching the phone right out of Hotch’s hands. “I understand.” His fingers twitched just a few inches from the device he so desperately wanted. “Mhm. Yup. I understand.”

Hotch extended the phone, and Genius latched onto it immediately, darting over to the nearest corner. Genius curled into a ball on the floor and pressed the phone tightly to his ear, still shaking with excitement.

Hotch watched Genius carefully, stalling for a few moments before sitting down with the rest of the team. “Call the Technical Analysis Department, and see if they can find anything on this mystery woman.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped when he heard what sounded like a stifled sob.

Hotch turned his head just enough that his ear was inclined toward Genius, and right about the time Genius’ voice cracked, Hotch felt a knife in his gut.

“Hi, Mom.”

Everyone around the table shared a pained look.

“No, wait! Mom, I’m real! You don’t need to adjust your antipsychotics, I promise, I’m real.” Genius sounded panicked, but he soon let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, it’s me. It’s really me. I’m here. I’m real. It’s me.”

Hotch met Rossi’s eyes, and he could tell Rossi was thinking about their earlier conversation. _He really did want the phone call for entirely innocent reasons._

“Yeah, I can prove it. I, uh, I figured you would ask.” Genius sniffed and shifted around, bumping something against the wall. “Do you, uh, do you remember… this one fight you had with Dad. You were arguing about,” he sniffed again, “about me being a genius, and how… how you had to work so hard to hide it. It was right before I graduated high school, and he said… he said my intelligence was only going to get more difficult to deal with as I got older, and you said, “Spencer’s p—”

Hotch turned his attention to the files when he heard Genius break off into a harsh sob, trying to offer some semblance of privacy. Still, it was hard to focus on the task at hand when there was a near meltdown going on in the corner, and harder still not to eavesdrop in a room with no background noise.

“Y-you said… ‘Spencer’s perfect.’” Genius let another sob out, and if the rustling of his clothes was any indication, he was scratching himself obsessively. “I never forgot that. I think about it a lot.”

Hotch gestured for everyone to write notes. He scrawled a few things in the margin of Sheila’s picture before handing it to Emily.

“Is… is _Love_ _Conquers_ _All_ still your favorite? I, uh, I have it. It’s one—one of the two things I own. I keep it in my pillow, and I read it every night.” Genius sighed in relief almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Yes, yes, it’s me, Mom, it’s really me. I remember those things; you know I couldn’t read them in a file. Mom, I—I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

JJ ducked her head, and Hotch got the feeling it was hardest for her to keep her eyes dry.

“Yeah, well—” Genius laughed, somewhat like a giggle and a chuckle blended together, “—of course my voice is lower, Mom. I went through puberty.” He laughed again—softer, weaker, sadder. “I’m—I’m really tall. I’m taller than Dad.” Sniff. “Is—Is your hair still short? Or did you grow it out again?” Sniff. “Oh, Mom, don’t be silly. I like it both ways.”

Rossi slowly got up from his chair and grabbed his coffee cup. “I think I’ll top this off,” he whispered, and then he made his way over to the door, opening it as quietly as he could.

Emily cleared her throat and quickly followed him, but JJ and Morgan stayed.

Genius swallowed hard, struggling to keep his voice even remotely level. “I don’t… I don’t know when or… if… I’ll ever talk to you again… or see you, and I want to make sure… I want you to know that I love you, and I… I _need_ you to know that I spend… every day of my life proud to be your son.” He sniffed.

Hotch glanced over in time to see Genius curling up a little tighter, trying to utilize what little privacy the corner offered.

“I know you do, Mom. I know. No, no, don’t—” Genius shook his head. “Mom, don’t, please. I love being a genius. I love who I am. I wouldn’t want to be anybody else. How I live isn’t your fault, you didn’t do this to me. You still think I’m perfect, right?” He paused. “Then don’t blame yourself. You made me perfect. Take some credit.” He paused again, and then he laughed softly. “I love you, too. I miss you, and I—”

Silence.

“Mom? M—Mom?” Pause. “Mom?” Pause. Sniff. “Stayed on too long.”

Hotch stole another glance in the general direction of the corner, and then he pushed the file in front of him toward Morgan. “There are a few different plots of land near military depots that would facilitate a secondary location for the torture and the storing of the bodies.”

Morgan nodded. “We said, based on the preservation and M.E. report, that he has to have some kind of freezer, but it could just be something thermal. Maybe something considered to be military equipment? If he had the time and dedication to keep putting ice and preservatives in with the bodies…”

“Uh, Spencer.” JJ frowned slightly. “That was your name, right? You feeling better at all?”

Hotch turned to look over his shoulder, taking the offered phone from Genius’ limp hand.

Genius only glared. “You don’t get to use my name. You call me Genius.” He mumbled something further under his breath but clearly didn’t intend for it to be heard. “What do you want me to do, Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch glanced up at him, and then he looked at the work spread out in front of them. For a moment, he considered inviting Genius to join them and share the work, but there wasn’t much they could do until the TAD replied.

Besides, Genius looked exhausted.

“You can go lie down. You look tired.”

Genius blinked, confused. “I… I am. That’s—observant.”

Hotch offered a very slight smile, not wanting to come across as cold.

“I… I’ll just sleep then.” Genius looked at Hotch suspiciously. “You don’t want me to put the whiteboard back the way it was? I can. I have an eidetic memory.”

Hotch shook his head. “No, that’s alright. Just get some rest.”

Genius looked at Hotch for a long moment. “Um… okay. Thanks, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his head, perplexed, and ambled back to the corner. “Let me know if you change your mind.” He dropped unceremoniously to the floor, curling up with his back to the corner.

Hotch frowned slightly, but Morgan pulled the words from his mouth before he had a chance to say them.

“Kid, there’s a couch in Hotch’s office.”

“Rossi’s, too,” JJ added.

Genius opened his eyes but made no attempt at getting up. “But Agent Hotchner is in here. And Agent Rossi went to get coffee.”

Hotch tried to gently correct him, remembering what the file said about his reactions to being contradicted. “Yes, but you can go in my office and sleep on the couch. I don’t mind.”

Genius shook his head, eyes closing gently. “I can’t be alone.”

JJ folded her arms and set them on the tabletop. “Is it the dark? Or the quiet? Because I have—”

Genius let out a heavy sigh underlined by a groan. “No, I mean I am not _allowed_ to be alone. I can’t be unsupervised, especially in a government facility. Obviously.” Genius curled up a little tighter, irritated by their questions. “You could handcuff me, if the couch is made for geniuses, but that’s a hassle. I’ll sleep here.”

There were a few beats of silence, and then JJ got to her feet. She left the room, Hotch and Morgan quietly comparing notes in her absence, and when she was back, she had a blanket and pillow in her arms.

“You are welcome to sleep on the floor if you want, but this should make things a little more comfortable.”

Genius looked at her strangely, almost as if he were afraid of the gesture, and then he cautiously reached out to take the items. “Um… thank you? That’s… uh… it’s very…” he struggled with his words for a moment. “…ethical of you.” He looked her up and down, squinting, and then he put the pillow on the floor, curling up like a cat and wrapping himself in the blanket.

“Goodnight, Genius.”

There was a moment of hesitance, and then came, “Goodnight, Agent Jereau.”

Genius seemed to nod off immediately afterward, clearly needing the rest more than his behavior let on. JJ turned away and rejoined Morgan and Hotch at the table, looking at them with heartbreak in her eyes. Hotch met her stare with a less-than-expressive look of his own, glanced briefly at Morgan, and then looked down to the files.

It was sad, but they were accustomed to sad stories, and they had a job to do.

Hotch inhaled. “Let’s try and get the TAD more parameters to work with. Emily can start working on the geographical profile when she comes back.” It was a relatively new method, and she was the only one who had any experience in the field, but with the new information, maybe she could make it work. “Morgan, use what Genius gave us and try to narrow down some more information about this mystery woman.”

Morgan nodded and grabbed a marker from the table, walking over to the whiteboard and getting to work.

Hotch turned to look at JJ. “Call a press conference. Plead with him to release Angela Hayes, or to at least call the tip line and talk to us. Make it convincing. If he thinks we’re completely stumped, he might not be able to resist gloating.”

JJ nodded and got to her feet, phone in hand before she had even reached the door. “I’ll tell Rossi and Emily to come back in,” she said over her shoulder, and she was gone before Hotch could respond.

Hotch let out a soft sigh and looked at the papers on the table, his mind flickering back and forth between the case and the cocooned body in the corner.

_It worked._

Genius had found something they couldn’t, and while he didn’t possess the profiling skills necessary to give them an unsub, he was able to give them the information they needed to profile. He clearly had problems working with others, he had a mouth on him, and his temper was none too stable, but he had done good work. He had done good work in less than a half an hour.

_Maybe this shouldn’t be temporary. It isn’t like we’re adding someone to the team, we’re just adding another perspective and a headful of knowledge. It’s like adding a piece of equipment. We could take him along on a case… see how he interacts with the locals… figure out if his brain is worth the risk._

Hotch engaged the emergency break on that train of thought. Before he started considering the next case, he needed to handle the one in front of him. Genius was asleep, but the unsub was not, and the clock was ticking. Hotch could think about Genius when the case was closed and Angela Hayes was safe and sound.

But really, Genius was a walking, talking supercomputer. He was an incredible resource.

What harm could it do?

* * *

It was late when they returned to Quantico, and Hotch was quick to send everyone home. Nobody refused, and each response to the order was half-hearted and worn, a sick silence settling over them as they ambled around their desks and grabbed what they needed.

They had made the arrest, and there was no doubt they got the right guy, but Angela Hayes died on the way to the hospital. They hadn’t saved a single victim, and that was the kind of case Hotch knew would knock them all on their backs for a while.

“Do we know what we’re doing with Boy Wonder tonight?”

Hotch froze at Rossi’s question, realizing he had completely forgotten there was a genius sleeping in the conference room. “I didn’t think about it. I’ll… call the number on the return card and wait for them to come pick him up.”

Rossi shook his head and waved it off. “Don’t mess with it tonight. I’ll take the kid home with me. I think my security systems are enough to satisfy any government regulations they might have for geniuses.”

Hotch rubbed his face briefly. “I…” _I can’t think at three in the morning._ “If you really don’t mind, I would appreciate it.” He started walking toward the conference room, Rossi on his heels. “He should still be in here.”

Hotch opened the door and saw Genius in the same corner where they left him, though he was most definitely not sleeping. He was, however, rocking back and forth, smacking his left temple with three fingers, and chewing on the knuckles to his right hand.

“Genius?”

Genius’ head snapped up before jerking right back down, movement never ceasing. He mumbled something under his breath, his words rapid and slurred together incoherently, teeth closing hard around the skin of his hand.

Rossi stood at Hotch’s right, maintaining a casual air with his hands resting comfortably in his pockets. “Speak up, kiddo.”

“I said you left me!” Genius screamed the phrase but still didn’t look up, rocking slightly faster and changing the taps to scratches. “You left me. You can’t do that. You can’t _do_ that. I’m not supposed to be alone.”

“You were sleeping,” Hotch said carefully, approaching the corner with one hand outstretched. “We didn’t want to wake you.”

“I’m not supposed to be alone!” Genius looked up at him and glared, but there were tears in his eyes, and he seemed more upset than angry. “What part of that don’t you understand? You got me in trouble. You got me in _big_ trouble. Big—” He put his head down and scratched harder, little droplets of blood forming on his cheek. “I’m in so much trouble. I’m in so much trouble. They’re gonna take my music and my book. I _love_ my music and my book. It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t bad. I was just sleeping. I was just _sleeping._ ”

“Genius.” Hotch carefully lowered himself to the floor, reaching out and taking the scratching hand in his. “I want you to stop panicking and listen to me for a moment.”

Genius kept scratching despite Hotch’s attempt at interference, and he started to chew on his knuckles again, but he didn’t speak. He scratched and chewed and rocked.

Hotch gently pulled the hand away from Genius’ face, not wanting the marks to get any worse, and he spoke as softly as he could. “You are not in trouble, Genius.”

Genius started nodding right away. “I am. I am. I am, I am, I _am_. I’m in so—”

“No, you are not.” Hotch reached for the other hand and started to pull on that as well. “You are not in trouble. I will not let you be in trouble. If someone tries to tell you you’re in trouble, you tell them they have to talk to me.”

Genius locked his arm so Hotch couldn’t pull away his chewing hand.

“Genius, I don’t know if this is part of your Tourette’s or if—”

“It isn’t. I don’t even have Tourette’s. I hate it when they say I do. They’re wrong. They’re stupid. You’re all stupid.” Genius bit down on his hand a little harder, the red and swollen skin beginning to bleed. “Tourette’s is involuntary, and it wouldn’t make me chew on myself. Dermatillomania, maybe, but that's involuntary, too. I can stop ticcing whenever I want. I just don’t, because it makes me feel better.” He panted in between his words, growing more distraught with every passing second. “It’s just anxiety. Why do they have to put me on so many medications? I don’t like them. I don’t want that many pills. I don’t want them to put me on any more. I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t need to be medicated again.”

“Genius, I need you to take your hand out of your mouth.” Hotch pulled on the limb again, being as tender as he could. “If you need—”

“Don’t need.”

“If you _want_ to,” Hotch continued calmly, speaking as though the interruption hadn’t happened, “you can tap on the walls or the floor. You can even chew on _my_ hand, if you want, but you’ve started cutting through the skin on yours. You’ve got to stop. Okay?”

Genius nodded sporadically, dropping his hand to the floor and smacking it faster than Hotch had ever seen a hand move. “I can do that. I’ll do that.”

Hotch opened his mouth but found he had nothing to say, his brain failing to provide the next course of action. He heard Rossi move behind him, and he closed his mouth. He would let the more experienced agent talk for a little.

“Hey, kid. You’re gonna come home with me tonight. I’ll set you up in my guest room, and we’ll come back here to Quantico in the morning.” Rossi took the hand Hotch was holding and started to pull Genius to his feet.

“You can just call. Send me back.” Genius got to his feet anyway, and he didn’t let go of Rossi’s hand, but the tapping and smacking and drumming on every surface within reach didn’t stop. “Unless you want my help again?”

Hotch and Rossi exchanged a glance.

“We… haven’t decided yet.” Rossi spoke carefully, turning his eyes back to Genius. “We’ll see what’s waiting when we come in tomorrow. Tonight, we’re going to go home and sleep.”

Genius’ leg started to shake, the lack of rocking apparently bothering him. “Okay. I can do that. I can do that. Now?”

Rossi nodded his head. “Yup. Right now, kiddo.”

“Okay.” Genius made a beeline for the door, leaving them behind in favor of completing his task as quickly as possible.

“Looks like I better run.” Rossi started after Genius, throwing a brief wave over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Aaron.”

“Night, Dave.”

Hotch stood there for a moment, heaving a sigh and letting his shoulders slouch just a bit. _I need a drink… and about fifty hours of sleep…_

Unfortunately, he could only make one of those things a reality. Still, he would take what he could get.

_I’ll call ICAP in the morning._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this before I started watching White Collar, so the presence of an Agent Burke was not planned, just coincidental. However, it was too perfect of a coincidence to change.


	2. Chapter 2

Rossi had never seen a kid so fascinated with a window before. From the time they left Quantico to the moment they pulled up to Rossi’s mansion, Genius’ face was pressed against the glass. His eyes might as well have been sparkling. He was so amazed by every light, every billboard, every sign. There wasn’t a single skyscraper that wasn’t gawked at. Not a single car went unnoticed.

In fact, the only thing Genius found more enjoyable than staring out the window was staring up at the night sky once he was out of the car.

“You don’t have any clothes with you, right?” Rossi stuck his key in the door and gave it a twist, letting them both inside. “I’ll get you a t-shirt to sleep in for tonight.”

Genius stepped in and looked around, smiling at the high ceilings and glass chandelier. “I don’t need one. I can sleep in my regular clothes.”

“You know, there’s a thing called ‘graciously accepting an offer.’ You might want to try it sometime.” Rossi smirked and entered the key code to prevent the alarm going off, more amused by Genius than frustrated.

“But I don’t need what you offered.” Genius cocked his head to the side. “Did you intend to offer a shower? Because I will take that. Food, too. I was supposed to be fed hours ago.” He blinked a few times and then looked around again. “Your house is very beautiful, and that statement is entirely objective. Most people think beauty is subjective, but almost all things considered beautiful can be broken down to mathematical patterns and shapes the human brain finds alluring.”

Rossi smirked to himself. Geniuses didn’t like pleasantries or beating around the bush, and Rossi could respect that. He always hated politics.

“Glad you objectively like the house, kid.”

Genius nodded his head on a loop, turning in a circle where he stood and inspecting the interior from top to bottom. Rossi watched him, taking in his appearance for the first time since he arrived.

Normally, Rossi would have assessed Genius within thirty seconds of meeting him—profiling came so naturally he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself—but Rossi had spent the past several days profiling non-stop. He had laid eyes on Genius, made a few quick notes, and then it was back to the case.

With the case closed, Rossi had more time to observe. However, despite Genius wearing his heart on his sleeve, there really wasn’t a lot about him to profile.

There was the constant ticcing, of course. Genius claimed he was able to stop at any time, but his fingers never ceased their twitching and tapping. Of course, it had been a pretty overwhelming day for him. Maybe he hadn’t stopped jittering because he hadn’t had a chance to calm down, but Rossi would withhold judgement on that for the time being.

Rossi frowned slightly, looking at the clothing Genius was wearing. They looked like hospital or prison scrubs. They were bland, gray, and frumpy, especially on Genius’ lanky frame, and Rossi had to assume they were standard issue. Genius was too exuberant and excitable to choose a colorless wardrobe on his own.

_Hmm… I wonder… I might have to dig through my closet tomorrow._

“Come on, kid.” Rossi started up the staircase in the foyer, motioning for Genius to follow. “I’ve got a few guest rooms up here. I figure you’ll want the one close to mine.” Since Genius seemed to have such a problem with being unsupervised. “They all have bathrooms if you want to take a shower, and I’ll have something whipped up for dinner in about thirty minutes.” Because there was really no point in trying to go to sleep while he was high on adrenaline, and he was feeling pretty hungry anyway.

“Where are the other guests?”

“Nobody here but us, kiddo.”

“But you have other guest rooms.” Genius sounded so confused when he replied that Rossi had to look.

Genius’ brow was creased, eyes swarming with calculations that would never see the light of day, and his fingers started to scratch and tap a little faster.

“I _have_ multiple guest rooms. That doesn’t mean they’re always in use.” Rossi pushed the door in and motioned for Genius to enter the room. “They’re for special occasions. Like tonight, for example.”

“What happens tonight?” Genius inquired curiously, walking into the room and looking around with that same, wide-eyed wonder on his face.

Rossi pressed his lips into a thin line and blinked twice. For a genius, the kid sure could be dense when he wanted. “You’re here tonight.”

“Oh. That’s not special.” Genius looked around the room some more, in awe.

“Maybe not, but you’re a guest. So, tonight I’m using a guest room.”

“I’m not a guest.” Genius cautiously approached the bed. “I’m a genius.” He leaned forward and pushed down on the mattress, a smile pulling at his lips. “It’s so soft.” His smile quickly grew into a full-blown grin, and he turned a pair of bright and shining Bambi eyes to Rossi. “Can I jump on it?”

Rossi raised a brow. It was an odd request, but there was no legitimate reason to deny it, so Rossi said, “Don’t break anything,” and turned to go.

“Wait!”

Rossi let out a sigh and turned back around. “What is it?”

Genius huffed, frustrated. “You can’t _leave._ You just said I could jump.”

Rossi pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled, trying not to let the late hour weaken his nerves. “Look, kid. I know the regulations on geniuses are pretty tight, but I’m not here to be your babysitter. You jump on the bed and take a shower and do whatever it is you gotta do. I’ll be downstairs, making dinner. We’re in the same building, and that’s gonna have to be good enough.”

Genius bit down on his lip and tapped his jawline, but his indecision lasted only a few seconds before he crawled onto the bed and started to wrestle with his shoes. “Yeah, okay. I guess that works.”

Rossi smiled slightly—a bemused, perplexed smile—and turned once again to leave. He walked out of the room just as Genius started to jump, childish laughter floating down the hall after him.

 _It’s hard to see him as any kind of threat to the government. Or in general._ But Rossi was in no way disillusioned by the childish nature of geniuses. He could still picture the way Genius sped through a mind-boggling amount of information as if he were reciting the tens’ times table. _Still, he seems like a good kid. Weird, maybe, but he’s a genius, so that’s a given._

Yes, Genius seemed like a good kid indeed.

 _But I have got to get him something else to wear._

* * *

“Kid, do you want food or not?” Rossi called out without looking over his shoulder, his focus almost entirely centered on the steaming pasta in front of him. “I’m going to bed as soon as I’m done eating, so if you want some, you better get down here.”

Rossi had no sooner finished his sentence when he heard footsteps thunder from one end of the house to the other. They grew closer, turned a corner, and came thumping down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“I take it you’re hungry.”

Genius nodded rapidly, somewhat out of breath. “Yes, sir.”

Rossi pointed to the dishes on the counter. “Well, dinner is served.”

Genius looked at the spread, and his expression quickly shifted from excitement to confusion. “Um, A-Agent Rossi? Where’s my food?”

Rossi stopped with a fork halfway to his mouth and his butt half on a barstool. “What? You don’t like spaghetti?”

“Oh, is that what it is?” Genius inhaled deeply, eyes closing for a moment. “Mm, it smells delicious. But, um, I’m very hungry, and I’d like to eat, so…” Genius started tapping the tips of his fingers together.

Rossi just stared, hand still hovering, leg still propped.

Genius wet his lips and scratched his cheek a few times. “You didn’t, uh, you didn’t get any?” He used his fingers to form three sides of a square and held them out in front of himself. “Little square packages? You peel the top off and add water and wait five min—”

“Kid, instant food has never passed over my doorstep, and it never will.” Rossi finally sat down and took a bite of his dinner. “This is better, anyway.”

Genius twisted his lips and balled his fists, stomping his foot in true toddler fashion. “Well, that’s great for you, but what about me?”

Rossi extended a hand toward the meal he had prepared, struggling not to raise his voice. “What part of this are you not understanding? Get plate, add food, eat dinner. It’s not that difficult.”

Genius blinked, shock wiping all traces of anger from his features. He did a double-take at the food. “You mean—?” He looked at Rossi with saucers for eyes. “You mean I can have some? You’ll share with me?”

Every last iota of frustration Rossi had felt rushed out of him in an instant. He gave a slight nod, wondering when Genius last sat down to a proper meal.

“Yeah, kid. I’ll share with you.”

“I—” Genius looked at the food again, taking a hesitant step toward it. “I don’t have any money…” His hand hovered above a plate, shaking a bit, as if the dish were going to bite him. “I can’t reimburse you…”

“You don’t need money, kid.” Rossi gestured to the food yet again, not knowing what else he could do to get his point across. “Just eat.”

Genius hesitated, his tongue flickering over his lip, but then he took the plate and started to fill it in earnest. He picked up his food and slowly approached the bar, sitting down where Rossi indicated. He looked at the food for a moment, toying with the fork Rossi had put there for him.

“Will this hurt my stomach?” Genius asked.

Rossi snorted, shoving a meatball into his mouth. “You’re the genius. You tell me.”

“I didn’t study _food_ ,” Genius snapped, his timidity suddenly buried by attitude.

Rossi felt his own fuse grow a bit shorter. _Right. Mood Disorder. How could I forget?_ He sighed. “Look, kid. I’m tired and hungry. _You’re_ tired and hungry. We are collectively miserable.” He indicated Genius’ plate with a nod. “You’re smart. Start eating, take it slow, and see what happens.”

Genius pursed his lips and pondered the idea for a moment. He must have decided it wasn’t too terrible of a plan, because it wasn’t long before he stuck his fork into the noodles and started to twirl. He managed to get most of the pasta into his mouth, but there were still a few strands hanging out. He slurped them up in a stereotypically comic way, and while it was a messy, it was effective.

Rossi did his best not to smile—he didn’t want to _explain_ anything else before the night’s end—and kept eating, occasionally sipping red wine from his glass.

To his delight, Genius was so focused on food that he felt no need to talk. Rossi was able to enjoy the silence and savor his well-earned dinner. Minutes passed, and the meal steadily vanished until Rossi was done and there was nothing but a few meatballs on Genius’ plate.

“You full?”

Genius fidgeted nervously in his seat, drumming his fingers on the countertop. “No. I, uh, I can eat it.”

Rossi frowned and reached for the plate. “If you’re full—”

“No!” Genius grabbed the dish, almost frantic. “I can eat it, I swear.”

Rossi tugged on the platter. “You don’t have to, Genius.”

“But that’s wasteful.” Genius stared at the plate, deeply concerned. “We can’t waste taxpayer dollars, that’s bad. Being wasteful is—it’s very bad.”

Rossi arched a brow at the choice in words. “It’s just dinner, kid. I bought it, made it, and served it myself. No taxpayer dollars were harmed in the making of this meal.”

Genius cast an almost longing glance at the aromatic food. “But… if I waste it, I don’t get to have more. I want more, Agent Rossi… I just want it later.”

Rossi gave the plate a small jerk to get it out of Genius’ hands. “I’ll put it in Tupperware and take it for lunch tomorrow. Okay?”

“But—”

“Bedtime.” Rossi got to his feet and skirted the counting, dropping his dish in the sink while putting Genius’ dish on the counter, so he could fulfill his promise of non-wastefulness. “Go on. Bed.”

Genius opened his mouth as if to object, but in the end, he bowed his head and scurried away, presumably to sleep.

_Whew. He’s a handful, that’s for sure._

However, the question remained: was he a fleeting handful, or was he going to be a handful that stuck around and got integrated into the team?

But, Rossi supposed, that was just something else he would have to withhold judgement on. He would just have to be patient.

* * *

Morgan glanced down at his leg when Emily poked him. He looked up at her, confused, and saw her vaguely gesture over her shoulder. She kept her gaze discreet, so Morgan did the same, shifting his attention to the door just as Rossi stepped in with Genius on his heels. Both men looked worse for the wear, but Genius was donning a sleepy smile and some new clothes.

Now, Morgan wasn’t exactly fond of how Genius acted the night before, but in light of the phone call they had witnessed, Morgan was a little more understanding. He figured Genius deserved more than one chance, and just because the kid was rude at times, that didn’t mean he wasn’t a good kid.

“Rossi. Genius.” Morgan turned his chair toward the doors and raised a hand in greeting. “Coffee’s ready if you need some—and it looks like you do.”

“Oh, I definitely do,” Rossi sighed.

“Is the coffee here like the coffee at ICAP?” Genius inquired, picking at the fabric of his sleeves. “Because the coffee at ICAP is actually paint thinner, but I would really like to try some of the flavors I’ve heard about.”

Morgan chuckled. “No paint thinner here.” He gestured to the nearby kitchenette. “Get yourself a cup, and—”

“We’ve got a case.” Hotch was making a beeline from his office to the conference room, barely looking up from his file as he walked.

 _Already?_ Morgan let out a sigh and got to his feet. “I’ll help you get some once we take off.”

“Take off?” Genius blinked. “Wait, we? I get to come, too?”

Rossi picked up the cup he had prepared for himself and started toward the conference room. “Yup. We have a case. We might as well use you while you’re here.”

“Oh. Right. Right, of course.” Genius bowed his head slightly, saddened by the words. However, Morgan couldn’t tell if it was the concept of being used or the thought of being sent back to ICAP that upset him the most.

_Better try and cheer him up._

Morgan put his hands on his hips and let out a sigh, looking the young man up and down. “Okay, kid. If you’re coming with us, we gotta get you lookin’ spiffy.”

Genius blinked and looked down at himself. “Is this wrong?”

Morgan cupped his chin in his hand and tilted his head to the side. “Not necessarily.”

Genius was wearing a dark red button-down and black cargo pants. Where Rossi got cargo pants, Morgan didn’t know, but he suspected Rossi was looking for something in his closet that would be long enough to cover Genius’ ankles—the baggier the material, the more likely they would fit. Rossi and Genius were similar enough in size for the shirt to fit almost perfectly, but the formal and casual mix-up just…

“C’mere.” Morgan beckoned Genius with a finger, and when they were standing across from each other, he took the shirt and unfastened the top two buttons. “You got a t-shirt under this?”

Genius nodded, blinking his wide eyes, clearly bewildered.

Morgan gave the shirt a few light tugs to get out the ‘neatly pressed’ look, and then he moved to Genius’ sleeves. He unbuttoned the cuffs and rolled them up—not too quickly nor too carefully, wanting to avoid the formal fold _and_ the trashy roll alike—until they were just barely covering Genius’ elbows. He tugged on the pants, setting them a little lower on Genius’ hips so they just barely brushed against the ground. He gave the kid another onceover and, after tousling his hair just a bit, gave two thumbs up.

“You look good, my man.”

Genius blinked and once again looked down at himself. “I do?”

“Yeah. I think you can pull off that look. It’s actually pretty smooth, you know, you got that ‘sophisticated bad boy’ thing going on.” Morgan slapped him on the arm and grinned.

“Oh, you mean, like—you mean attractive?”

Morgan’s face shifted to show his confusion, but then it gave way to a small smile. “Yeah, Genius. You’re a good-looking guy. What did you think I meant?”

“I thought you were trying to help me blend in. Like, I dunno, make me look less… genius-y.” Genius shrugged.

“Nice word choice. You invent that yourself, Einstein?”

Genius opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by Hotch leaning out of the conference room with a firm, slightly irritated order.

“Now, please.”

“Come on, kid.” Morgan started walking, beckoning Genius with a finger over his shoulder. “Time to see what we’re up against.”

Morgan heard pattering footsteps from behind and couldn’t help but feel a little excited about how the case might go. Genius had a lot to offer intellectually, of course, but he was an allover likable kid…

…when he wasn’t interrupting. Or being sarcastic. Or condescending. Or talking without looking as if conversation with normal people was the most disinteresting thing in the world. Or stomping his foot like a little kid. Or any of those other quirks that seemed to come with the territory of being a genius.

Other than that, Genius was a likable kid, and Morgan was looking forward to working with him. Assuming, of course, nothing went terribly wrong.

* * *

“Are you listening to music?”

It had taken Genius a good forty-five minutes to stop staring out the windows, watching the clouds and the sky beyond with fascinated eyes. Once the sky no longer held his attention, however, he became extremely bored and started tapping on his stomach. He hummed to himself, mumbled in different languages, changed seats and positions at least a dozen times, and finally, he plopped down next to Morgan and tapped his right headphone.

Morgan pulled the headset down so it rested on his neck. “Yeah. It helps me pass the time.”

Genius nodded, eyes wandering over the headphones with a hint of jealousy. “I love music. I only own _Love Conquers All_ and my MP3 player. I _love_ my MP3 player.”

Morgan smiled at him. “Well, did you bring it?”

Genius deflated, drumming his fingers on the seat cushion. “No, they wouldn’t let me have it. They said I had to focus on working.” He perked up then. “But I’ll be going back soon, and then I can listen to music _all day_ if I want.”

“Genius,” Hotch called from the other side of the plane. “It’s time to take your medicine.”

Genius huffed, his reaction incredibly immature but endearing in its own way. “I don’t _want_ to.”

“You can’t skip doses, Genius. You didn’t take them last night due to the circumstance you were in, but that isn’t going to be routine.” Hotch grabbed the white bag from beside his seat and opened it up, an expression of bewilderment crossing his features. “Oh, what’s this?”

Genius perked up like a meercat, head tilting as he watched Hotch reach into the bag.

“Huh.” Hotch pulled out a small MP3 player and tangled headphones, holding them up for Genius to see. “It seems they sent this along to give to you if you don’t fuss about your medication.”

Genius eeped. He actually made that exact noise—eep!—when he saw what was in Hotch’s hand. “I’ll take them! I’ll take them right now, Agent Hotchner!”

Morgan chuckled to himself, silently applauding Hotch for taking advantage of the situation. It hadn’t been intentional, but by listening to music, Morgan made Genius want his own music that much more. Hotch segued so easily, Morgan had to wonder if he had been waiting for it.

“You’re going to have to eat something.” Rossi opened his bag and started looking through the contents, pulling out a plastic container and handing it across the table to Hotch. “There. Give him that with his meds.”

Genius hopped up and scurried over to the two team leaders, holding his hands out expectantly. He saw the lunch container and cocked his head to the side, temporarily distracted. “Is that for me?”

Rossi let out a soft sigh, but it was more amused than annoyed. “Kid, I told you I was going to put it in a container for lunch today.”

“Oh.” Genius fidgeted where he stood. “I thought you meant for you.”

“It was your food, kid.”

Genius shook his head. “No, it was yours. You just let me use it.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “Genius, you can’t let someone _use_ food. Once you consumed it, it became yours.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean everything on the plate is mine. I don’t own anything. Everything the government gives me is given on loan, and they can take it away whenever they want. I only own my book and…” Genius bit his lip and struggled with his hands, fighting the urge to grab the device from Hotch. He reached out a little and then pulled his hands back, squealing through closed lips.

There was a brief silence in the jet, and Morgan felt a slight turning in his stomach. He didn’t like the thought of such a nice kid being so strictly limited in what he could have. Other geniuses, he could understand—when someone might turn two books, a candle, and an MP3 player into an incendiary device, you had to make sure they didn’t have much. But Genius was so innocent. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, and Morgan couldn’t see the sense in keeping him so heavily controlled.

Rossi cleared his throat. “Kid, the food is yours. Okay? I might work for the government, but that doesn’t make me an organization.” He took the meal from the center of the table and pushed it toward Genius. “This is me, a person, giving you, a person, some food. It’s yours now.”

Genius blinked a few times, bewildered by the direction the conversation had taken, but he seemed touched by the gesture. He picked up the plastic box and looked at it for a long time before turning cautious eyes back to Rossi.

“All of it? I only had three meatballs left on my plate last night.”

Rossi gave him a tight smile. “All of it, kid.”

Genius smiled back.

It was the first real smile Morgan had seen Genius wear, and it was full of the same wonder that dominated his staring session with the airplane window. His face radiated a kind of happiness that reminded Morgan of winning a championship game.

He was just _so_ happy.

“Thank you, Agent Rossi.”

“You’re welcome, kid.”

Genius looked at Hotch then, biting his lip and bouncing on his toes. “Can I have my medicine, so I can take it with this food, so I can have my MP3 player?”

Hotch pretended to consider the question, and then he handed over the small bag of pills. “If you promise to take these as soon as you heat up your food, I’ll give you the MP3 player now.”

Genius nodded his head rapidly, squealing again and clearly struggling to contain himself. He wanted that MP3 player. Badly.

Hotch looked at him for another second or two, and then he handed over the device.

“Yes!” Genius took the MP3 player and scurried to the onboard kitchen, a smile once again painted on his face.

It was mere seconds before Morgan heard Genius humming to himself, and he couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. Genius really was a likeable kid. His smile, despite its sparing presence, was almost infectious.

_I wonder how long we get to keep him._

Genius reappeared roughly two minutes later, earbuds firmly in place and a steaming bowl of spaghetti in his hands. He plopped back down next to Morgan and pulled his legs up onto the seat, crossing them over each other and digging in.

Morgan was half-tempted to close his eyes and go back to his music, but he decided watching Genius was more interesting. He pulled his phone from his pocket and paused his music, trying to listen in and get an idea of what genre Genius was listening to.

_Something loud… strong bass…_

Genius licked his lips, trying to clean his face a little, and then he looked at Morgan. “Um, is there anything to drink on the plane? I can take them dry, I just… don’t really want to.”

Morgan snapped his fingers and stood up. “We were gonna get you coffee.”

“Oh! Right.” Genius nodded and moved to stand. “Can you sh—?”

“I’ll get it for you. Just finish your lunch.” Morgan waved it off and walked to the kitchen area, grabbing a seat back or wall from time to time to keep his balance. “How do you take it?”

Genius stared from where he sat, looking somewhat lost, but then he snapped out of it. “Um, black.”

Morgan nodded and went about making the requested drink, putting it in a styrofoam cup with a lid. He took it back, careful not to spill it, and sat back down next to Genius.

“Here you go. Italian Roast.”

Genius took the drink and stared at it, struggling with his words. “I, uh—I… this was very… you didn’t have to do this. So, um… thanks.”

Morgan arched a brow. “You have trouble thanking people, don’t you?”

Genius nodded his head, tapping the side of the coffee cup. “Mm, something like that.”

Morgan only laughed and shook his head. It was pretty arrogant to have such a hard time accepting help, but for some reason, it didn’t bother him. Maybe because Genius tried so hard to get it right. It was the nature of a genius to be arrogant, to not accept help and refuse to thank people, but Genius tried to be better. That counted for something in Morgan’s book.

Genius put his fork in the empty plastic dish and tossed the equally empty pill bag in after it. He put it on the seat next to him and leaned back, sipping his coffee, fingers tapping rapidly on either side of the cup. He nodded his head in sync with the music in his head, and Morgan was just about to ask what he was listening to when Genius rapped.

Genius. Freaking. Rapped.

“High on the adrenaline, rhyme like I’m a veteran, fine, I’ve been ahead of the game, no way I’m settlin’, drained, but I’ma get it in, lame, this is a medicine, hey, you get the medic kit, beats, ‘cause I don’t let’em live, fast, better keep peddlin’, blast you with the pen again, laugh, but I’m ahead of them, act like I don’t get it then _that_ is when I enter in, rap until I never can, cash, it is irrelevant, passion is the element, laps around these other men, pass’em who you runnin’ with, facts, is what I’m coming with, back, but I ain’t never left, swift, but I will never get, wack, you better get a grip, last isn’t a medal it’s glass and I’ma shatter it—who do you think you’re battling, who do you think you’re laughing at? I am not a comedian, man it don’t even matter, if you don’t know what I’m saying, you better do what the chorus says, you don’t know what the chorus says, tell’em what the chorus says—yes!” Genius threw his free hand in the air. “I did it without breathing!” He grabbed Morgan’s arm and grinned like he had won the lottery. “I’ve been working on that for three months!”

Morgan just stared. He could see some of the team in his peripherals, and they were staring, too. Hotch and Rossi were behind him, but Morgan would have bet a hundred dollars they were also staring.

“Kid.” Morgan looked Genius dead in the eyes. “You can drop a _sick_ verse, man.”

Genius hesitated a moment, his face twisting up with uncertain confusion. “That’s… you mean that in the good way, right?”

Morgan nodded, opening his mouth but shutting it without saying anything. He smiled, shook his head, and moved his arm around Genius’ shoulders. “You’re alright, kid. You’re alright.”

Genius was tense for a moment, but then he relaxed, leaning against Morgan and sipping his coffee. He put his thumbnail between his teeth and chewed idly. “Good… that’s good.”

Morgan laughed and let his head drop back against the seat.

Genius got more likeable by the hour, and it was great, but Morgan felt the urge to stay on guard, something nagging in the pit of his stomach. Something he couldn’t quite shake.

It made sense enough. After all, they hadn’t contradicted Genius—not on intellectual matters—and there were bound to be times when theories didn’t pan out. What then?

Morgan didn’t know, but the same part of his gut that said to be careful told him it wouldn’t take long to find out

* * *

Morgan’s gut was right.

They made it through the crime scene easily enough—trailer exploded, four dead—and Genius was very helpful in determining Rod Norris and Lou Savage were targeted. But then they began to investigate Owen Savage, starting with the school. They went to see if Owen was absent and, when he was, they got his records.

That was when things started to change.

Every conversation, every comment, every fact they learned about Owen made Genius steadily angrier. He grew tense, he glared at everyone, he muttered under his breath, his normally rambling tongue suddenly clipped every answer short. Thankfully, despite the changes, he didn’t do anything too extreme.

Until they entered the Savage household.

Genius was inside for no more than fifteen seconds when something snapped. It was as if someone flipped a switch in his brain. They turned off helpful, curious, difficult but tolerable Genius, and they turned on… something else entirely.

“Lou came home after that,” Sheriff Hallum explained. “He was discharged so he could raise Owen.”

“Is that why he resented them?” Genius accused. Because it really _wasn’t_ a question, and everyone in the room knew it.

Morgan reminded himself that Genius was… well, a genius. They weren’t very good at politics or societal constraints, and everyone knew that. Sheriff Hallum and his men had been warned ahead of time.

But that didn’t stop them from getting angry.

“Hey.” Sheriff Hallum responded to the rhetorical question. “Lou served his country and this town. He was a good cop and a good man.”

“Yeah, a good man that doesn’t have a single photo of his dead wife or only son anywhere in his entire house. He does, however, seem _very_ fond of his uniform. Make sure you bury him in it.”

“Genius.” Hotch gave him a sideways glare and a slight shake of the head, but Genius didn’t seem all that perturbed. “Sheriff, you understand the sentiments of a genius are not the sentiments of the Bureau or anyone on my team.”

Hallum put his hands on his hips and nodded. “Yeah, I worked with one before. Lots of fun, these guys.” He didn’t stop glaring at Genius.

And Genius glared right back.

Morgan cleared his throat and gestured to the safe against the far wall. “Maybe we should get this open, see if anything’s been taken. It might give us some ideas on where Owen is.”

Hotch gestured to Hallum and handed him a tablet and pen. “Start with birthdays. Lou’s, Owen’s, Hope’s. Keep track of the ones you’ve tried.”

Genius snorted and shook his head, crossing the room to the safe and crouching down. “You’re all idiots.” He punched in six digits and the safe opened, at which point he stood up and looked at his small audience. “It’s the Marine Corps birthday. Obviously.”

“Obviously?” Hallum shot back.

Morgan looked at Hotch, a silent message passing between them.

_This is why Genius has never been allowed in the field._

“Yes, obviously. Look at this place. It screams military. There’s no sense of personalization at all; no color, no art, entirely too bland for anyone to actually _enjoy_ living here. I already mentioned there are no pictures of his wife or child at any stage in their lives, but there _is_ a picture of Lou Savage in his uniform.”

Genius walked into the nearby kitchen and came out with a few empty beer cans between his fingers, still speaking. “He likes his lager, so he clearly wasn’t angry at Hope for her drinking habit based on morality or image. He was angry because the habit lead to her death; not because he cared, but because it ultimately led to a barrier between him and his uniform. He resents Owen for _existing_ for the same reason.” He finished the sentence by tossing the cans on the floor.

Hotch tossed a glance at Morgan, silently telling him to get ready for intervention.

Genius stormed back across the living room. “This safe is placed where everyone can see it immediately upon entering the home. It’s a stupid place for a safe, but despite his many flaws, Lou Savage isn’t _that_ stupid. He put it here because he wanted to look at it as often as possible. Why? Because it’s related to his job, and his job is the only thing in his life he enjoyed. Why? Because it was the closest he got to being back in the military. Why? Because he had a _child_ who needed him, and sadly, he had no choice but to put the bare minimum of effort into raising said child.”

Hotch stepped forward, strategically placing himself between Genius and Hallum, with one hand slightly outstretched. “Genius, that’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t. You brought me along to profile, so I’m profiling.” Genius grabbed a frame off the wall and held it up for them to see. “We have a few medals and certificates here, where one can stare at them while sitting on the couch, but I see no report cards or accomplishments of any kind. Owen was extremely intelligent, he just had a learning disability, meaning there were math and science tests that could have been framed. They weren’t. Nothing was, not even a childhood painting. Clearly, this also explains why there’s no father of the year award in the collection.”

Genius tossed the medal on the floor with the beer cans and put his hands on his hips, laughing with such bitterness, he seemed almost glad Lou had been killed. “You know, it’s a shame Owen had a learning disability. If he had been straight genius, he would have been taken away and locked up. Then we wouldn’t be here, and Lou would be back overseas playing cops and robbers.” Genius imitated the firing of a rifle. “Ooh-rah!”

Hallum lunged at Genius like a man possessed, but Hotch was quicker and managed to hold him back before he made much headway.

“Sheriff!”

“You little smar—”

“Sheriff, geniuses are government property.” Hotch pushed Hallum back a bit. “You can’t assault him, or you’ll be charged. I don’t want to do that, especially because he’s the one out of line.”

Morgan glanced over his shoulder, but no one outside seemed aware of the fight. Hopefully, they could keep things at least somewhat discreet.

“He won’t be charged.” Genius stood with his hands in his pockets, ice in his eyes, shoulders heaving with labored breaths. “I spoke out of turn, and I mistreated the personal property of a victim. Sheriff Hallum, you are, by law, fully entitled to hit me twice. Go ahead.”

Morgan decided it was his turn to step in and provide Hotch with some backup. He passed Hotch and Hallum, who was suddenly calm, and placed an outstretched hand on Genius’ chest. “You need to calm down.”

“I’m just saying he has the right to hit me.” There was no personality in his voice; no sign of the old Genius anywhere. He was like a machine, rattling off information, and the only emotion that managed to get through was anger. “If you don’t let him hit me, you’re denying him his legal rights.”

Morgan felt a flare of anger in his stomach. “Do you _want_ him to hit you, kid?”

“Do you _not_ want him to hit me?” Genius drawled back, disinterested.

Morgan gave him a slight push. “I’m not kidding Genius. You made your point, now knock it off.”

“I’m just saying—”

Morgan put his finger to Genius’ lips, stopping him. Morgan tried, and failed, to ignore the way Genius had flinched back at the sudden movement. Apparently, Morgan was entitled to hit him, too.

“Not another word,” Morgan said, his tone low and dangerous. “Right, Hotch?”

Morgan looked over his shoulder, hoping to get enough backup to talk Genius into cooperation, and he didn’t expect the look of disturbed shock on Hallum’s face.

“Unless it’s something helpful regarding the case,” Hotch started, no flexibility whatsoever in his voice, “then, no, I don’t want to hear another word.”

Morgan looked back at the angry young man behind his finger. “Keep it together, kid. Next time the sheriff wants to take your head off, I think Hotch just might let him.” Morgan slowly lowered his finger. “I get that you’re a genius and you guys…” he gestured with his hands to indicate something undefined, “…do this, whatever this is, but you’re gonna have to act like a normal person until we get you back to Quantico. Got it?”

Genius stared at him, the fight fading from his eyes. It wasn’t replaced with the former Genius, though. It was replaced with a cold, burning rage; simmering anger that needed just a little more heat to boil over again.

“Got it.” Genius gave a single nod, lips pressed together, looking at Morgan as if he were the stupidest man on the planet. “I’ll keep it together.”

“Good.” Morgan took a step back and lowered his hand from Genius’ chest.

Hotch gave Hallum some space, all four men exchanging various looks, and a silence settled over the room. Morgan looked to Hotch, hoping to receive an order of some sort, but Hotch looked like he didn’t know exactly how to move forward, either. Morgan looked at Hallum, who still looked more lost than anything, and then he looked back at Genius, who was staring blankly ahead with dead eyes that revealed nothing.

“Let me by! Let me by!”

It came from outside, female and loud and _angry._

“Family?” Morgan asked, not looking away from Genius.

Hallum and Hotch moved to the door first, with Morgan tailing behind them, hanging back to stay close to Genius.

“Is it true?” She—whoever she was—stood outside, screaming angrily, standing just a few feet from the bottom step. “Was it him? Did Lou’s freak son shoot Byron?”

Morgan tensed up. If Owen became the topic of conversation again, he honestly didn’t know what Genius would do. He gave Genius another hard stare and then stepped onto the porch, stopping just behind Hotch and Hallum.

“Send them home, Sheriff. We don’t need them.” She lowered her voice to a growl. “You know what to do.”

Morgan saw movement to his left and looked just in time to see Genius drop into the garden. “Genius, don’t do anything stupid,” he warned, kicking himself for not staying inside.

Genius simply dusted himself off and shoved his hands into his pockets, calmly walking past the irate woman staring at him in a mixture of anger, confusion, and disconcertion.

“I’m sure you’ll get the outcome you want regardless of who is or isn’t involved.” Genius stopped and turned around, smirking wryly. “But you might want to stop screaming. I’ve been reliably informed that we all need to keep it together.”

Morgan shook his head, already started down the steps. “I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t.”

Morgan stopped and turned around, confusion creasing his brow as he realized Hallum was the one who told him to stop. He looked at Hotch, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

Hotch turned to Hallum and lowered his voice, but Morgan could still hear him.

“We can remove him from this case. We’ll send him back to Quantico.”

Hallum shook his head, still bearing that profoundly disturbed expression on his face. “No. I want to find Owen, and a genius is a genius.” He wet his lips then, shaking his head. “That boy needs help.”

“We’ve been made aware of that. We will take…” Hotch trailed off when Hallum started shaking his head. “Sheriff?”

“You didn’t see him.” Hallum gestured to Hotch. “You were facing me, and you,” he nodded to Morgan, “hadn’t walked over yet. Right before he said to let me hit him…” Hallum stared ahead, sighed, and shook himself before starting down the steps. “I hope I never see eyes like that again for as long as I live.” 

Morgan looked at Hotch, his mouth slightly agape, face still twisted with confusion. He didn’t know what to say to that or what he was supposed to do. Detain Genius? Keep him at the house? Send him to the station? The airport?

“Hotch…?”

Hotch shook his head, equally bewildered, and rubbed his temple. “Uh, you stay here at the house. I’ll take Genius back to the station and put him… I don’t know _somewhere_ … and then, hopefully, we’ll be able to give the profile.”

Morgan looked out at the street where the cars were parked, still somewhat lost for words. “So… no more field missions.”

“You think?” Hotch snorted, joining Morgan at the bottom of the steps.

“Think we can keep him back at Quantico? Set him up there with a little study or lab or whatever and call him when we need him?”

Hotch stared out at the road, his expression guarded. “I don’t know if something like that is possible, but I’d like to try. You saw him in there. He took one look around and figured out the combination to the safe and half of Owen’s profile. If he goes back to ICAP, all those skills are going to go to waste.”

“You think it’s worth it? He’s spent most of his life in a maximum security facility; there really isn’t a lot you can threaten him with. You can’t force him to play by the rules.”

Hotch let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, Morgan. But if we can find Owen and keep him from hurting anyone else, isn’t that worth some offended cops and federal agents?” He sighed yet again, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing. “I’m not naïve. I know it doesn’t work that way, but if there is a way _to_ make it work…” He looked at Morgan, determination flashing in his eyes. “I would have to do it. I couldn’t justify letting people be tortured and killed because someone is going to hear something they don’t like.”

Morgan gave Hotch a solemn nod. “Whatever you decide to do, I’m behind you, man.”

“I know. Thank you.” Hotch stalled for a second more, and then he started walking out to the SUVs.

Morgan watched him leave and then walked into the house, shaking his head with a sigh.

_What did we get ourselves into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love manly fashionista Morgan. I love Genius rapping to relieve anxiety. I love Hotch being crafty. I love all my babies being all the things.
> 
> Song is 'Turn the Music Up' by NF. 11/10 would recommend.


	3. Chapter 3

Hotch considered himself to be a patient man. Did he lose his temper? Of course. But for the most part, he was able to keep himself supernaturally calm in the face of just about anything. He was known for his nerves of steel, and he was used to people relying on those nerves.

Genius did not rely on nerves. He worked on them. Every single one of them, right down to the tiniest, frailest, microscopic neurological fiber.

“Given the circumstances, you’re lucky he hasn’t killed more.”

Genius wasn’t even supposed to _be_ at the profile briefing.

“It sounds like you’re saying the victims deserved this.”

Genius was supposed to be getting himself a coffee.

“Well, I’m certainly not saying they didn’t.”

But Genius just couldn’t help himself.

“Genius, a word.”

Hotch beckoned him with a finger and walked to the nearest empty room, somehow managing to keep his temper under control. He didn’t yet know what he was going to say, but he could only ask the locals to excuse so many infractions based on the ‘genius’ excuse.

Hotch took a few steps into the room and turned around to face Genius, barely managing to hold his tongue until the door swung shut with a click. “What was that?”

“It was the truth,” Genius shot back.  “They could have done something to help. They knew Owen, knew his father. They have no excuse.”

“Excuse for what?” Hotch didn’t bother to suppress the disbelief in his voice.

“They left him in a toxic environment, ignored his clear downward spiral, and expected no repercussions. It’s asinine, and you’re defending them.”

“I’m not defending them. I’m trying to catch a killer.” Hotch narrowed his eyes slightly, keeping his tone firm but trying to keep out any of the sheer lividity he felt. “We need them to cooperate with us if we want to keep anybody else from getting hurt, including Owen.”

“So, what? You kiss up to them so you can throw their victim in jail? This is _their_ fault.” Genius gestured wildly to the door behind him. “They could have seen the signs. They could have _done_ something.”

“Nobody sees the signs, Genius, and making it ab—”

“Nobody sees the signs because nobody looks, Agent Hotchner!” Genius yelled, raising his voice out of anger for the first time since they met, and Hotch was temporarily silenced by the outburst. “Nobody cares until the right person gets hurt, and when they look, what they see is never their fault. People like you don’t care about people like me, and as long as that’s how the world is run, there will always be serial killers. There will always be hundreds of people who aren’t mistreated enough to be _real_ victims; who aren’t crucial enough to society to be _real_ victims, who aren’t innocent enough to be _real victims._ You will ignore and suppress them, and then when they create victims of their own, victims you deem _worthy_ of justice, you will blame them for _everything,_ because the alternative is to accept the consequences of treating another human being like _garbage,_ and you just can’t have that.”

Hotch waited a few seconds and then raised a brow. “Are you finished?”

Genius ground his teeth together, scratching furiously at the inside of his right arm.

“Good.” Hotch put his hands on his hips, using a no-nonsense tone that was surprisingly calm given his skyrocketing blood pressure. “We do not have time to argue with the locals about what they could or should have done to prevent this. Regardless of how Owen wound up how he is now, he has killed seven people and abducted an eighth. It is our job to find him and stop him from hurting anybody else.” He nodded to the closed door behind Genius. “Now I want you to go back to the house and figure out what Owen’s end game is.”

“Agent Morgan is already doing that.”

“Join him.” Hotch didn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

Genius scoffed and spread his arms. “You’re punishing me?”

“No, I’m using you.” Hotch stepped past him and opened the door. “Consider it a compliment. You don’t use garbage.”

Genius stood still for a moment and fumed silently, reminding Hotch of a pot on the verge of boiling over.

Hotch didn’t care. If he was about to witness one of the episodes that put Genius on mood stabilizers, so be it. He had had just about enough.

Genius did finally do something, but it wasn’t exactly what Hotch was expecting. He swallowed hard, lips quivering as if he were about to cry or scream or both, and then he put his head down and stormed past Hotch toward the exit. Evidently, as incorrigibly as he was doing it, he was obeying orders.

 _This will be a nightmare to clean up._ Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose and took a moment to collect himself. _One thing at a time, Hotchner. One thing at a time._

Taking a deep breath, Hotch left the room and approached JJ and Sheriff Hallum, already dreading how the rest of the case would go.

* * *

Morgan sighed and dropped onto Owen’s bed, discouraged. _Genius wasn’t wrong. It’s no wonder we can’t find a father-of-the-year award around here._

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine Johnny Cash thrumming in his ears, a sick feeling settling in his gut as his father’s drunken footsteps thundered down the hall toward his room. He tried to imagine staring at a screen he knew the world could see, watching himself masturbate clumsily, uncoordinatedly, embarrassingly.

For a moment, he started to feel sick to his stomach, and his heart started to beat a little faster, but then his phone rang. The illusion shattered, falling away in pieces, and Morgan took his phone from his belt with a heavy sigh.

_Incoming Call… Hotch_

Morgan answered immediately. “Hello?”

“How is Genius doing?”

Morgan buffered for a moment. “Uh… I have no idea?”

“Is he not there?” Hotch sounded more angry than concerned.

“No?” Morgan frowned, leaning to look into the living room. “Did you send him here?”

“Yes. He should have been there ten minutes ago.” Hotch sighed. “I’ll see if I can find the officer who dropped him off.”

Morgan opened his mouth to speak but stopped short when he heard frantic pounding on the front door. “Hold on, Hotch. I think I might hear him.”

Morgan got to his feet and left the bedroom behind, turning his head to look at the front door. He saw Genius standing outside, banging on the wood with both fists, his face obstructed by the glass and the distance between them.

“He’s here, Hotch. He doesn’t look good.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know yet. I can’t see his face, but…”

Morgan took his own turn at silence and answered the door instead, startling when Genius exploded with a combination of tears, rambling explanations, and the shallow breathing of an oncoming panic attack.

“I-I didn’t do anything, I promise. I know—I know I wasn’t supposed to go on my own, but I was so mad! I really was gonna come here. I promise! I just—I got lost and then—” he gulped down a lungful of air and let out a few harsh sobs before gasping and starting again, “—and then I couldn’t find my way back to the station, and I couldn’t find my way here because everything is so big and loud, and I didn’t know where I was, and I couldn’t ask for directions because I’m not allowed to talk to the general public, and I didn’t want to break any more rules, and I—I—”

Morgan snapped his phone shut, knowing he didn’t have the time to do anything but keep Genius from tumbling headlong a full-blown meltdown. “Hey, hey, hey.” He gently took Genius by the shoulders and pulled him inside. “Let’s get you sitting down, okay? I believe you, kid. I believe you.”

Genius scratched at his arm relentlessly, blood staining his fingertips. “I didn’t—I didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, I did, but I only got smart with Agent Hotchner. I just yelled. I was just mad, but I didn’t run away to do anything bad. I didn’t mean to yell at him. I didn’t, I was just—I was just so mad—I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry, please don’t make me go away, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry,_ I—”

“Shh.” Morgan hushed him, not knowing what else to say or do, and with some careful maneuvering and coaxing, he somehow got Genius to sit on the couch. “Genius, I want you to put your head down between your knees, okay?”  

Genius nodded and did a he was told, shaking and scratching and gasping for air.

Morgan crouched down and gently moved Genius’ hands to his thighs. “Here. Scratch somewhere your skin is covered. You won’t make yourself bleed if you scratch through your pants. Might get some blood on them, but they’re dark and it’ll wash out.”

Genius took to the suggestion immediately, but the scratching didn’t slow. In fact, it seemed to get faster, as if it didn’t give him the same kind of relief.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re okay. It’s just a panic attack.”

“J-just?” Genius blurted incredulously, nearly squeaking the word.

“That’s right, just.” Morgan spoke lowly and evenly. “It isn’t as big of a deal as it feels like right now. It’s your brain sending out chemicals and making your body do things you don’t like, but it’s normal for you. It’s part of who you are. You aren’t dying. You aren’t suffocating. It feels like you are, but you aren’t. You’re _just_ having a panic attack.”

Genius let out a frantic sort of noise, but then he started to nod. “J-just a panic attack. S’normal, right?”

“That’s right. Nothing to be scared of. No need to feed the anxiety. Just your brain doing its thing.” Morgan rubbed Genius’ back right between his shoulder blades. “Just Genius being Genius, right?”

Genius nodded again, gulping down a few lungs worth of air. “Just me being me.”

“You’re safe, right?” Morgan pressed.

“Right.” Genius nodded again. “Right, safe.”

“It’s like getting a bad flu. It sucks, but you know it’s only temporary. It’s gonna go away soon, and you’re gonna be fine.” Morgan kept rubbing his back, ducking down slightly and trying to meet Genius’ eyes. “How long does the average panic attack last, smarty pants?”

“W-well—” Genius took a deep breath and lifted his head somewhat, hands still scratching frantically. “It’s difficult to say. Generally, the answer is ten minutes, because the term ‘panic attack’ refers to the entirety of the attack from onset to peak. Mine usually last around that time, sometimes shorter if I can pinpoint a trigger and address it.” He took a few more breaths and let them out, lifting his hands to his face and rubbing slowly. “Even though the attack itself takes an average of ten minutes, the recovery period is an average of thirty minutes. For some people, it can last hours. I, um, I tend to get longer pre-attacks and post-attacks with very short peaks. Sometimes I can calm myself down before it gets that far, but… other times I can’t.”

Morgan offered a quick smile. “It’s okay if you can’t stop it. Everything is still gonna be okay.”

Genius didn’t say anything, but it seemed the intellectual conversation had grounded him pretty quickly. He was breathing a bit slower, and his sentences were a little more coherent.

“See? You already got past the worst of it.”

“Y-yeah, I guess I did…” Genius fidgeted where he sat, his lips twisting and brow furrowed, almost as if he were still debating the idea inside his own mind.

Morgan slowly stood up and moved toward the kitchen, keeping a close eye on Genius as he moved. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Genius nodded but didn’t say anything, inhaling deeply before hissing the air out between his teeth.

Morgan ducked into the kitchen and grabbed a paper towel, wetting it in the sink before taking it back to the couch. “Here you go. Clean yourself up.” He clicked his tongue and winked. “After all, pretty boys gotta stay pretty.”

Genius sniffed and nodded, wiping his arm a few times and finding some of the dried blood was a bit hard to remove. “Can—can I use the sink? In, uh, in the bathroom?”

Morgan smiled and nodded, stepping aside. “You go right ahead.”

Morgan waited until Genius was around the corner, and then he pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Hotch back and walked out onto the front porch, rocking on his heels while it rang, still a bit disoriented by the floppy-haired tornado that had burst into the house.

“Morgan, what happened?”

“I dunno, man, he just…” Morgan shrugged his shoulders and walked toward one end of the porch. “He was a wreck. He kept going on about being sorry, saying he didn’t do anything wrong. I think he tried to come here on foot and got lost. He’s got that whole… supervision thing, y’know?”

Hotch snorted, an incredulous little laugh coming through the speaker. “Mad enough to storm off without a police escort, but not mad enough to make a break for it.”

Morgan smiled briefly, turning around and walking back the other way. “What was he so mad about in the first place?”

“He wants to argue with the local police, and I can’t allow that.” Hotch sighed exasperatedly, and Morgan could tell the issue was more complex than they had time for. “He blames the police and the townspeople for how Owen turned out.”

Morgan pursed his lips and continued to pace. “I mean, he’s not completely wrong. Everyone is shaped by their environment, and people are a huge part of that.” Briefly, he thought of Carl Buford. “Not everyone gets a good hand.”

“I know that, Morgan.” Hotch’s tone was unusually clipped and terse. “Did you find anything at the house?”

Morgan’s first instinct was to question the sudden change, but he decided to let it go. “I got into Owen’s computer, and I think the key to finding him is Jordan Norris. It looks like she’s the only good thing in his life, and he’ll want to protect her. Hotch, I don’t think she’s a hostage.”

“You think she’s an accomplice?”

“No, that’s not the vibe I’m getting. He wouldn’t do anything to put her in danger, and getting her involved in the murders would definitely do that. I was trying to get inside his head, figure out how she fits into his plan, but… well, you know what happened.”

Hotch sighed on the other end of the line. “Alright, we’ll look into Jordan’s friends and see if there’s a way to get in touch with her without alerting Owen.” He paused. “When we get back to Quantico, I need to talk to you, but let’s close this case first.”

Morgan’s face scrunched up. “Uh, sure thing.”

The line went dead, and Morgan pulled the phone away from his ear, looking at it. _That was cryptic._

“Agent Morgan?” Genius came out of the house, bloody napkin pressed to his arm. “I heard you talking on the phone. If Jordan is the key to finding Owen, Hope might be the key to finding Jordan. Owen cares about those two people more than anyone or anything else, so if there’s something he did or somewhere he went with his mom—”

Morgan snapped his fingers and pointed. “He might take Jordan to the same places or do the same things. Genius, you’re—” Morgan stopped and laughed. “Well, you’re a genius.”

Genius got the faintest of smiles on his lips, but it was soon gone. “I’ll start with his computer.” He turned around and left without another word, and Morgan couldn’t help but feel he had said something wrong.

 _Maybe he’s just embarrassed. I know I would if I went off on someone like that._ But geniuses didn’t care. That was _why_ they went off on people. _Hmm. Maybe our genius does._

Shaking his head, Morgan tucked the thought away in the back of his mind and reentered the house. He had an unsub to catch before he did any more thinking about Genius. 

* * *

Hotch had underestimated Genius. He really had no idea what was coming, even after Genius had angrily shoved his vest into Hotch’s arms with a muttered, “You’re going to shoot someone who never had a chance. I won’t be a part of that. Have fun at target practice.”

Sure, the display was irritating, and the never-ending comments Genius made had Hotch on the verge of pulling his hair out, but Hotch still had no idea.

He didn’t know a thing until they got to the cemetery and Owen wasn’t there; until they realized Genius had let them follow the wrong lead; until Hotch was standing behind a car with Morgan, unable to take aim because of Genius putting himself between them and the target.

_Genius, you idiot, you’re going to get yourself killed._

“Owen, I don’t have a gun. I’m not an agent.” Genius took a few steps, holding his hands over his head. “My name is Spencer Reid, and I just want to talk.”

“Yeah? I need you to stay back!”

Morgan leaned over, speaking in a harsh whisper. “Genius has no social skills, and he is way too close to this case emotionally. He’s gonna set Owen off and get himself shot.”

“I know, but we can’t help him if we can’t get Owen in our sights or get closer.” Hotch exhaled slowly, using the panic-induced adrenaline to his advantage. “It’ll only get Genius shot sooner. Now, let’s think.”

Genius walked slowly, his voice ringing with a confidence and clarity it usually lacked. “I know the only reason you joined the team was for your father. I know he blamed you for what the team did to you.”

“Stay back! Right where you are!”

Genius kept moving forward, crouching slightly to place Owen higher than himself.

_That was smart, at least._

“I know the only reason you killed Rod Norris and Kyle Borden was to protect Jordan. I know the harder you tried, the worse it got, and everyone just stood there watching you suffer. Nobody even tried to help.”

“They didn’t.” Owen’s voice was hoarse, hurt painting his tone. “They didn’t.”

“I know they didn’t,” Genius replied softly, still inching forward.

“No. No, you don’t.” Owen shook his head, reaching for his gun again. “You don’t know anything!”

Genius put his hands a little higher and shouted, “Owen, I was in the library!”

It was enough to make Owen stop, and Hotch let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. _Thank God._

Genius crept a little closer as he spoke, keeping himself small and non-threatening. “It was high school. I was in the library, and… Harper Hillman came up to me and said Alexa Lisben wanted to meet behind the bleachers. Alexa was…” He squirmed where he stood, fingers twitching above his head. “She was easily the prettiest girl in school.” He swallowed and got a little closer to Owen. “I went to the meeting place, and she was there with—with the whole football team.”

“Hotch, what is he doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he makes something up—”

“I don’t think he is. There’s a reason he relates to Owen.”

“What if Owen doesn’t believe him?”

“I know, I know, just let me think.”

But what could they do? They were still held hostage by Genius’ own lack of foresight, trapped behind their vehicle with no way of making a move.

Genius reached over to scratch his arm above his head, a gesture Owen didn’t seem to notice in the slightest. “They didn’t video tape it, but… the whole school was there. I know it wasn’t the same, but I… I _kinda_ know, y’know?”

Owen gave him a jerky, almost frightened nod. Evidently, he did know.

Genius lowered his arms to get better access, and Hotch was relieved to see Owen unbothered by the motion.

Morgan whispered again. “There’s some kind of trust established. This is good.”

But Morgan was still tense, and Hotch couldn’t deny the knot in his own gut.

Genius cleared his throat, his voice dying down somewhat. “They, uh… they took my clothes and… tied me to the goal post. I begged them to stop. I… I begged them, just like you did all the times this town hurt you; all those times you had to suffer alone.” Genius’ voice died momentarily, and when it returned, he was back to his story.

“I begged, but nobody did anything. They just watched and laughed… and when they got bored, they left. It took me hours to get myself untied and back home.” Genius shook his head, taking a few more steps as the scratching continued. “So please, please believe me… when I say… I _do_ know.” Genius shook his head again, as if trying to banish the images he himself created. “I know you want to escape and forget, and I know ex—exactly how that feels. I know what it’s like to lay in bed at night and wonder why you can’t just fall asleep and never wake up. I know what it’s like to know that—that the only thing between you and suicide is how tired you are. But listen, Owen, you don’t have to die.”

“No.” Owen shook his head, taking half a step back. “No, I’m already dead.”

“No, you’re not.” Genius made up for the lost distance with a few steps of his own. “You’re alive, and you love Jordan, and you don’t want to leave her. I know you don’t. You know what it’s like to be left behind.”

Owen seemed to struggle with himself, looking at his gun, not putting it down but not aiming it directly at Genius anymore. “You… you bring her to me, alright? Here. Outside.”

Genius shook his head. “They won’t let me do that because I’m not an agent, but Jordan is in that building, and when they arrest you, I will go in with you. I will walk you in, and you can say goodbye, and you can give her your mom’s necklace.”

Owen looked down at his gun, knees buckling slightly as if he were going to place it on the ground. “I… I don’t know.”

“If they want to hurt you, they’ll have to kill me first. I would rather be shot dead here and now than make you do this alone.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to do this at all…” Owen shook his head and looked at Genius helplessly. “Not even for her, I don’t want to… to…” He grit his teeth and uttered a frustrated growl, unable to put his feelings into words.

“I know. I know, you don’t have to say it. I know every time you feel happy, you think about how miserable it’s going to be when that feeling goes away, and it’s… I know. I’ve been there, Owen, and I tried to escape, too. I tried three times, but things have happened since then—good things, things I was so happy to be alive for, things that were worth it. You have to believe me when I say it can get better.” Genius took a few more steps and gently placed his hands on Owen’s gun. “Let’s put the gun down and go inside. Together.”

Owen looked at him, blinking rapidly, fingers hesitantly unbuckling the strap from his gun.

“For once in your life, Owen, you are going to come first. I promise. Just put the gun down.”

Owen slowly crouched, placing the gun on the asphalt and lifting his hands over his head.

Hotch and Morgan rushed forward, several officers on their heels. Morgan arrived first and cuffed Owen with Hotch covering him, and Genius immediately latched onto Owen’s arm, glaring hatefully at anyone who came close. If they wanted to get him off, they really would have to pry his cold, dead hands away.

“Morgan, take them inside.” Hotch spoke evenly, staring Genius dead in the eye, rage boiling just beneath the surface. “And when you’re done, bring Genius back to the motel. He and I are going to have a very long talk.”

Genius made a noise that resembled a growl, but he didn’t say anything. He stayed close to Owen, and when Morgan started to push them toward the station, Genius didn’t fight back in the slightest.

Hotch holstered his weapon and let out a sigh, rubbing his forehead and moving back toward the SUVs. They didn’t need him to wrap up the case, and he needed a drink. Unfortunately, he was still on the clock, so chocolate milk was going to have to do. 

* * *

Emily walked up to Morgan and handed him a coffee. “They still in there?”

Morgan nodded solemnly and looked through the window to the holding cell, sipping his drink. “Owen looks like he hasn’t been allowed to cry in years. Genius is just… holding him and telling him everything is going to be okay.”

Emily got a little closer and leaned to look in the window, observing the scene for herself.

Morgan had described it accurately. Owen’s head was down, shoulders heaving as he sobbed into his hands, and Genius had both arms wrapped around him. Every now and then, Genius would stroke Owen’s hair or rub his back, but he would ultimately go back to a simple hug.

“Strange. Normally, he can barely stay still for thirty seconds, but he has no problem sitting in the same place to be with Owen.” Emily squinted slightly, confused by what she saw, and she stepped back from the door. “Do you know what happened to his arm?”

“He got lost and scratched it open.” Morgan took another drink. “He cleaned it up at the Savage house, but then he scratched it all back open.”

Emily winced slightly. “There’s a first aid kit in the Sheriff Hallum’s office. I’ll get it then.”

Morgan nodded but didn’t say anything.

Emily bit her lip briefly and cautiously pressed for conversation. “Hey. You alright?”

Morgan didn’t respond for a moment, completely still and silent, but then he turned his head to look at her. “I’m glad we didn’t have to shoot Owen, but… what if Genius had been wrong?”

Emily nodded understandingly, recalling the way her heart hammered in her chest throughout the entire negotiation. “He’s so young.”

“There were a few times I honestly thought he was going to get shot.” Morgan sighed and rubbed his face. “I get why he relates to Owen, but it’s like—it’s like playing with dynamite, and Genius just… doesn’t seem to get that.”

Emily flashed a knowing smile and nudged Morgan on the arm. “You can say it, you know.”

Morgan frowned at her. “Say what?”

“That you were worried about him. That he scared you.”

Morgan looked back into the room and gave a slight nod. “Yeah, he did.”

Emily almost said that Genius had scared her, too, but Morgan looked like he had enough on his mind. Still, it didn’t change the fact that she had spent the majority of her time behind the brick wall running through worst case scenarios.

What if Owen felt his pain couldn’t be understood and Genius reaching out made him mad? What if Owen adopted an Angel of Death mentality and thought he had to put Genius out of his misery? What if any one of the steps Genius had taken was just a little too fast or unexpected? What if Genius hadn’t started his story quick enough? What if the locals had tried to interfere? What if the rest of the team arriving in big, dark SUVs scared Owen enough that he opened fire?

What if that childish face constantly obstructed by floppy, brown waves was covered in blood as Genius laid on the ground, a spray of bullets having torn his chest apart?

Emily shook herself, willing the mental images away, and cleared her throat. “Uh, I’ll go get that first aid kit.”

She left without waiting for Morgan to respond, slightly nauseated by the image she couldn’t quite erase. She had her own piece to say about his reckless behavior, but she doubted it would see the light of day. Genius would understand what he had done wrong with or without her two cents.

Emily had no doubt that Hotch was going to cover _all_ the bases. 

* * *

“Did you think at all before walking out there? Did you spare even a second of thought for the possible outcomes if Owen didn’t listen to you? Do you have _any_ idea how close you came to dying out there? You were irrational, irresponsible, and inconsiderate. You didn’t—”

“I really like the alliteration you used there.”

It was all Hotch could do to keep himself from grabbing Genius by the throat and throwing him off the motel roof. Clearly, the hour and a half they had spent apart did nothing to soothe either of their tempers, and after ten minutes of Genius stonewalling him, Hotch was fed up.

But he channeled his anger into a low, growling tone and kept the upper hand in the argument. “You jeopardized your life and the lives of everyone around you just so you could make a point.”

“It was a good point,” Genius shot back, fists clenched at his sides, eyes blazing. “Owen surrendered, and nobody got hurt. That’s a success.”

“It’s a success based entirely on luck.” Hotch honestly didn’t know why he was still talking when it was clear he wasn’t getting through. “You had no idea how Owen would respond, you just assumed it would be the way you wanted. You were completely unprepared for any other outcome.” He paused and tried to add a softer tone to his voice. “You may relate to Owen, Genius, but that does not make you the same person.”

“You may be a profiler, Agent Hotchner, but that doesn’t mean you know anything about the kind of person I am.” Genius snarled the words, and there was no sign of repentance in the near future. “I understood Owen better than you or anyone on your team ever could. Don’t get mad at me because I did your job better than you.”

Hotch got that striking urge to ring a very specific neck again, but he quelled it. “You didn’t do my job better than I did, Genius. My job is to lead and protect my team, aid the local police, serve the public, and get justice for the victims. You did none of those things.”

“I got justice for the only victim who mattered.” Genius growled, taking two steps to close the distance between them.

Hotch shook his head, incredulous, and he lost the battle of keeping his voice level. “ _The only victim who mattered?_ Do you even hear yourself?” He scoffed, torn between appalment and disbelief. “You do not decide who is and isn’t a victim.”

Genius sneered. “No, I guess that’s your job, too.”

“Really? Is that what you think?” Hotch extended a hand toward the darkened town, wondering if it were possible for Genius to get any further under his skin. “Do you think I go around handing out gold stars to some victims while ignoring others?”

Genius smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course. That’s the whole point. You work with the FBI to protect people like you from people like me.”

Hotch stared back at Genius, offended more than he would ever admit. “You think I do this job to protect bullies from their victims?”

“Well, you can’t lock everyone up, can you?” Genius tapped the side of his head. “Genius. Insanity. Crimes. You can only come up with so many reasons for keeping people out of society, and when you run out, well…” He pointed to the gun on Hotch’s hip. “You find other ways of solving the problem.”

Hotch threw his hand out and smacked Genius across the face. He said nothing, waiting in stoic silence for Genius to collect himself and respond. It provided Hotch with minimal relief, but luckily for Genius, Hotch hadn’t smacked him out of anger.

Genius spat on the roof and glared. “Feel better?”

“No. Do you?” Hotch questioned, folding his arms over his chest and peering down at Genius expectantly. “Do you feel better? Do you feel justified?”

Genius stared at him, confused but angry, tongue flashing over his lips.

“I hit you. Have I victimized you enough to validate your behavior? Have I turned you into a _real_ victim? Do you feel better now that I proved your point for you?”

Genius sniffed and spat again, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Or maybe not.” Hotch pursed his lips, feigning consideration. “Maybe that was my legal hit, and now I need to hit you again. You tell me, Genius. Have you been keeping score like Owen? What revenge do you think you’re entitled to, based on my actions? What revenge am I entitled to, based on yours?”

Genius wavered for a moment, sniffing again, tongue flashing across his lip. He clenched and unclenched his fists, silent but furious, and Hotch thought that maybe—just maybe—he was finally understanding the flaw in his logic.

Hotch let out a quiet sigh and softened his approach, not wanting Genius to think he actually approved of bullying in any capacity. “Genius, I’m sorry about what happened to you, but—”

“This isn’t about what happened to me, Agent Hotchner!” Genius screamed the words, but between the visceral reactions and the tears in his eyes, Hotch realized that was _exactly_ what the fight was about.

“I think it is. I think you—”

“No, it isn’t. Stop it. Stop right there.”

“Genius, just listen for a mome—”

“No, we are not talking about this.”

“Genius, _stop_ interrupting m—”

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say, so _no,_ I will not stop interrupting.”

“Genius.” Hotch stared him down, not quite glaring but silently demanding cooperation. “Do _not_ interrupt me again. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Genius glared at him, but his resolve wavered. “If I do?”

Hotch pushed his jacket back and put his hands on his hips, displaying his sidearm. “I thought you figured out how I solve problems, Genius.”

Genius stared at the gun for several moments, shaking with rage but utterly silent.

“Genius.” Hotch left no room for debate in his voice. “Have I made myself _perfectly_ clear?”

“Yes, _sir_.” Genius may have caved, but his tone was pure venom.

“Good.” Hotch let his jacket fall back down and returned his arms to their position over his chest. “Now, I would like to finish what I was trying to say.”

Genius sneered but somehow managed to keep his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth.

“I know this job is hard, because all you see are the ways things go wrong. But just because no one helped you or Owen, it doesn’t mean no one ever helped every person who ever suffered the way you have. There are good parents, good teachers, good mentors and friends and strangers. I meant what I said. I’m sorry for wh—”

Hotch stopped when Genius looked away, grabbing his chin and pulling his face back up.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Genius glared, but it was weaker than before.

“I am sorry for what happened to you. I am sorry for what happened to Owen.” Hotch saw the clear disbelief and gave Genius a slight shake, softening his voice. “I am sorry. I am. That should never have happened to either of you. You deserve to be treated better than that.”

Genius pulled his head away and tried to leave, but Hotch snagged his shoulder and pulled him back. He took Genius’ upper arms in his hands and caught a brief glimpse of teary eyes before Genius ducked his head. It seemed it was easier for Genius to handle admonishment than understanding.

“Genius,” Hotch continued softly. “What happened to you wasn’t fair. You shouldn’t have been made to feel that way. Someone should have protected you, and if I had been there, know that I would have. I would have helped you in a heartbeat. But this behavior is going to get you killed.”

Genius started shaking his head rapidly, but Hotch continued to speak, keeping his voice down. Even though Genius had been the one to push Hotch to his absolute limit, something about going from harsh to gentle was working in a way gentleness alone had not.

“What if we hadn’t realized where Owen really went, and we waited there while you and Prentiss were alone at the station? What if you had been shot and Prentiss was the only member of our team there? She would have been the only person determined to see a clean arrest with no casualties. Do you think she could have done that alone?”

“Shut up.”

“Genius—”

“You’re lying!”

Genius tried to pull free, stepping back and keeping his head down. Hotch moved with him and easily held on, wishing he had an extra hand to force Genius’ head up.

“I’m not lying to you, Genius.”

“I’m not an idiot, Agent Hotchner!”

Hotch had absolutely no idea what Genius was talking about, but there had clearly been a grave miscommunication. “I know you aren’t an idiot. You’re very intelligent.”

“Yeah,” Genius scoffed. “Too intelligent. People like you don’t care about people like me. You never have. You’re lying.”

Hotch exhaled sharply, renewed frustration drawing lines in his face. “Genius, I do not do this job to hurt people. I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” Genius uttered, pulling again.

Hotch held on tighter. “Genius—”

“You’re lying! You’re a liar!” Genius shook his head rapidly, pushing against the ground with his feet in a desperate attempt to get away. “You don’t care! No one cares! That’s not—that’s not how this works!”  

Hotch let out a heavy sigh and pressed his lips into a thin line. He let go of Genius’ arms and let Genius stumble back before gesturing toward the door to the stairwell. “Our flight leaves in forty-five minutes. See if anyone needs help packing.” He waved his hand, silently telling Genius to get a move on. “This discussion isn’t over. We _will_ be talking about this when we get back to Quantico.”

Genius stared for a moment and then briefly glared before his expression was overtaken by confusion. He took a few steps, stopped, and then ran away as quickly as he could, leaving Hotch alone on the rooftop.

Hotch let out a sigh and shook his head, exhausted. He walked over to the edge of the building and sat down, letting his legs dangle over the edge. It was only a two-story structure, and even if it weren’t, Hotch had never been particularly afraid of heights. If anything, the solitude found on rooftops made him feel more at ease than any hotel room.

Definitely more at ease than any _motel_ room.

Hotch heard the door to the stairwell squeak open, and he turned his head just enough to see Morgan walking toward him. He faced forward again, trying to decide whether or not he had the mental capacity for another conversation.

“It sounds like things went well up here.” Morgan grunted as he sat, joining Hotch on the edge of the roof.

Hotch shook his head almost numbly, fatigued by the emotionally raw case and its aftermath. “For a moment there, I thought I was getting through to him, but then he went off again. By the end of the argument, he just kept calling me a liar and left it at that.”

“Huh.” Morgan laid down, most likely to stare up at the stars. “That’s not good. If it’s not a matter of making him understand, how are we gonna get him to side with us?”

Hotch shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He didn’t have the faintest idea. He could start by convincing Genius that he did, in fact, care about people who were socially unacceptable. Maybe from there, he could get Genius to not only understand but accept the responsibilities of law enforcement, respect and trust the justice system, and utilize the art of prioritization. But even if, by some miracle, he managed all that, it was still a far cry from controlling or preventing the erratic, emotional outbursts Genius was so fond of.

“Did Prentiss tell you he was hugging Owen?”

Hotch looked at Morgan and arched a brow in lieu of a question.

“Genius went into the holding cell with Owen. They talked for a bit, and then Owen just… snapped. He started crying his eyes out, and Genius stayed with him the whole time. That’s why it took us so long to get back here.”

Hotch faced forward with a faint smile pulling on the corner of his mouth. “Good. That was probably good for both of them.”

Morgan nodded, and a silence fell on them again.

It was a beautiful night. Stars dotted the sky overhead, and a cool breeze occasionally tousled their clothes. It was mostly darkness spread out in front of them, house lights dotted sparingly across the black expanse.

“It’s my job.” Hotch looked at Morgan, his expression guarded. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Uh…” Morgan blinked and frowned, sitting up slightly. “What?”

“You told me on the phone that not everyone is dealt a good hand, as if I don’t already know that.” Hotch snorted softly and shook his head. “I know my reputation, but do you really think I have so little compassion that I needed to be reminded of that?”

Morgan sat all the way up and leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees with a sigh. “I knew I said something wrong.”

“You’re a good profiler,” was all Hotch said.

Morgan chuckled softly. “Yeah, well, not good enough, ‘cause I didn’t know what it was I said.” He looked at Hotch. “I know you know that. I know it’s your job to have the clear head, and that means you can’t focus on emotional aspects.”

“It’s second nature for me to sympathize with Owen.” Hotch didn’t know why he felt the need to explain himself when Morgan already understood, but he kept going. “He was treated terribly. It doesn’t matter whether or not there could be signs of sociopathy at his age, there were signs of suffering, and no one helped him. That makes me angrier than you can imagine, especially as a father, especially knowing what I would do if Jack were treated that way by anyone. But I have a job to get done, and I have victims to save, and I have a team to lead, and…” He shook his head and turned away, staring out at the town again. “It’s my job.”

Morgan was quiet for a moment, the creaking of his leather jacket being the only indicator he was still present. He put a hand on Hotch’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze before dropping it.

“I know, Hotch. You’ve shown your hand before. When Evan Abby blew himself up to take down the unsub. When Sheppard shot that boy in front of his mom, and then we caught him at a birthday party full of kids. I know you care.” He paused, swinging his leg a few times and kicking the side of the building. “I know, but Genius doesn’t. Genius doesn’t know who he’s up against. He wasn’t really wrong about Owen, and to be fair… you never told him that.” He sighed then. “I didn’t either. I should have. _We_ should have.”

“Well, I tried up here, and he called me a liar, so maybe it wouldn’t have worked anyway.” Hotch rubbed his face and let out a sigh, looking at Morgan with a faint smile. “I’m sorry for snapping at you. It’s… been a long day.”

Morgan only laughed. “It’s all good, man. You couldn’t pay me all the money in the world to relive today in your shoes.”

Hotch laughed, too, albeit softer. “You have…” he stopped when his phone started to ring, and he finished once he saw who was calling, “… no idea.”

Morgan looked over Hotch’s shoulder and saw Haley’s name and picture on the front of Hotch’s phone.

“You got that right.” Morgan clapped Hotch on the back and stood up. “Good luck, man.”

Hotch sighed. “Yeah.” He let it ring one more time, and then he answered, having no idea what was waiting on the other end of the line. “Hello?”

* * *

Hotch glanced up when the pilot announced they would be landing in fifteen minutes, his eyes immediately returning to the report notes in front of him. Haley was mad—excessively so—and he knew he would have to go straight home when they landed. If he wrote notes by hand, at least he could decrease the amount of work waiting for him when he got to the office the next morning.

Especially considering how much time was going to be spent on Genius over the next few days.

Genius obviously couldn’t go out in the field with them anymore, but Hotch couldn’t see the point in locking him up again. _It’s like having a supercomputer and only using it for Google searches._

Still, keeping Genius in the building at all times meant Hotch had to fill out a dozen or more forms. He had to get the permanent residency approved by Strauss, and he had to requisition funding for genius-specific furnishings, food, clothes, and so on. Each one of those would be a separate form, and that didn’t even begin to cover whether or not they wanted to put a tracking anklet on him, how they would keep him constantly supervised during office hours, or what they were supposed to do to ensure he actually answered the phone while they were away.

_Oh, my head…_

“Agent Rossi, thank you for letting me sleep in your guest room and eat your spaghetti.”

Everyone on the plane tried to look at Genius as discreetly as possible, and Rossi had to stare for a moment before he could get out a reply. “Uh, you’re welcome, kid.”

Genius was quiet for a second, arms folded over the back of his seat, eyes glued to the night sky beyond the window. “Agent Jereau, thank you for giving me a blanket and a pillow. You’re a very nice person who smiles a lot.”

JJ wet her lips, opening her mouth and responding in her typical, compassionate way, but with an undertone of confusion. “You’re welcome, and… thank you. I’m glad you think so.”

There was another brief moment of silence, Genius tilting his head to the side but never looking away from the window. “Agent Morgan, thank you for letting me talk to you and for listening to music with me.”

Morgan idly tapped his right headphone, brow creased. “Uh… sure thing, kid.”

“Agent Prentiss, thank you for bandaging my arm. And for the cookies. They were really, really good.”

Hotch looked at Emily and arched a brow, a silent question on his face.

Emily only smiled and answered the one who had given thanks. “You’re welcome, Genius.”

Hotch turned his attention back to his paper. It was odd, the random words of thanks Genius had offered, but it was hardly the most pressing thing on Hotch’s mind. _I have to finish writing this, get back to Quantico when we land, put Genius in my office for the night—unless Rossi can take him again, maybe Rossi can take him again—go home, try to smooth things over with Haley, maybe start working on typing the report after she goes to sleep, email it to myself, and then tomorrow—_

“Agent Hotchner, thank you for giving me a chance.”

Hotch stopped, looking up and finding Genius still enthralled with whatever he saw in the great beyond. Hotch hadn’t expected to be thanked for much of anything, given the conversation they had before takeoff. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say, but he figured there was no harm in a quiet, “You’re welcome.”

“I really like you guys.” Genius smiled wistfully and laid his head down on the windowpane. “You’re really neat.”

Nobody knew what to say to that, and a silence settled over the jet. It lasted for the remainder of the flight and the walk directly afterward. It seemed like a matter of minutes before they were breaking apart in the parking garage, all going their separate ways.

“Dave, would you be able to take Genius again? If not, I can handcuff him to the sofa. I would just really prefer we not have to do that.” Hotch heard his phone go off and inwardly cringed.

“I’ll take him, Aaron.”

Genius frowned, tilting his head to the side. “Agent Hotchner, you said we were going to talk more once we got back.”

Hotch’s phone started to ring, and he let out a quick sigh. “Not tonight, Genius. Go with Agent Rossi, and we’ll finish talking tomorrow. I have to take this. Goodnight.” He answered his phone and pressed it to his ear, already making his way toward his car with faint goodbyes bouncing off the walls behind him. “I’m in the parking garage right now, alright? I’ll be home in fifteen minutes.”

_Just another day in paradise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be an explanation for Genius being in high school. Also, I have a headcanon that Hotch really likes chocolate milk. I literally have no idea why. I don't think he drinks chocolate milk even once in the entire series. Don't judge me.


	4. Chapter 4

“Looks like someone slept on the couch last night.”

 _I wish._ Hotch gave Rossi a withering glare. “Dave, I’m not in the mood.”

Rossi held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay. But you might want to go somewhere else if you’re in a mood, because Genius is in one, too.”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Why is _he_ in a mood?”

Rossi slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “My guess is he’s still mad about Owen. He didn’t talk much last night, didn’t eat supper or breakfast, and didn’t talk again this morning. I had to rebandage his one arm because he ripped it open sometime during the night and started scratching again. He’s been on the couch in your office for the past hour, just sitting there, staring into space.”

Hotch glanced up at his office and nodded. “Right.” He sighed. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Hey.” Rossi snagged Hotch’s arm and lowered his voice. “If you need anything…”

Hotch smiled weakly, a mere twitch of the lips. “I know, Dave. Thank you.”

Rossi gave him a serious nod and let his arm go.

Hotch walked through the bullpen and up the stairs to his office, walking in  and closing the door behind him.

Genius was sitting on the couch and staring blankly at his hands, which were furiously scratching and twisting each other. He was wearing the same outfit as the day before—he looked like he had slept in it—and his hair was tangled and frizzy.

“Good morning, Genius.” Hotch set his briefcase on his desk and decided start the conversation as generically as possible. “Did you sleep well?”

Genius shook his head once, still staring at his lap, otherwise unresponsive.

Hotch wasn’t exactly surprised, considering what Rossi already told him. “Something keep you up?” he asked, slipping a curious tone into his voice.

Genius nodded, but he kept his head down and offered no explanation.

Hotch frowned slightly, puzzlement quickly smothering his irritation.

If Genius was in a mood, he wasn’t doing much about it. He wasn’t being argumentative or destructive to lash out, and he wasn’t seeking to make himself feel better. He was just sitting there, looking like death warmed over, half run into the ground by the stress his emotions had put his body through. He looked like he wanted nothing more than sleep,

Hotch could empathize with that.

Hotch walked over and joined Genius on the couch, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his knees. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Genius shrugged his shoulders, hazel eyes completely vacant, and his lips started to move slowly. It took a few moments for sound to come out, and when it did, it was almost entirely monotonous with just the faintest tinge of melancholy. “Are they coming soon?”

Hotch furrowed his brow and tilted his head slightly. “Is who coming soon?”

“ICAP.” Genius scratched his arms and sniffed, eyes fluttering before he forced them open again. “When are they gonna come get me?”

Hotch didn’t answer right away, unsure of how to proceed.

If Hotch got his way, Genius wouldn’t be going back to ICAP for quite a while, but Hotch didn’t know for certain he would get his way. He had barely scratched the surface of the paperwork, he hadn’t gone up the chain of command; he hadn’t even told the rest of the team what he was thinking of doing. Granted, it would take a little while for an official answer to come through, but even that short time span couldn’t be promised until Hotch knew more about genius regulations.

“Genius…” Hotch started carefully, trying to decide where he wanted to take the conversation first, “…who told you you were going back to ICAP?”

Genius didn’t move his eyes, but his arms finally shifted to wrap around himself. “I always knew I was going back,” he mumbled.

“Yes, but I never said when. We already used you on one more case than expected.” Hotch tried to meet Genius’ eyes, but Genius was determined to stare at nothing. “What made you think you were going to be sent back right away?”

“I was bad.”

Hotch stared, stunned by the statement. It was excessively childish, even for a genius, yet the words came out naturally, as if the phrase were a regular part of Genius’ vocabulary. And once Hotch thought about it, he realized similar phrases had been strewn throughout the rapid, panic-induced ramblings from the first night they had him.

_“I’m in so much trouble. I’m in so much trouble.”_

_“It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t bad. I was just sleeping.”_

_“I don’t like them. I don’t want that many pills. I don’t want them to put me on any more. I didn’t do anything wrong.”_

“Genius…” Hotch stopped short as an idea began to form, and he quickly restructured his question to explore the budding theory. “Can you tell me how you were bad?”

“I didn’t listen.” Genius scratched at his upper arms, still hugging himself. “You said no, and I did things anyway. I was loud. I was disrespectful. I made people mad at me. I ran away.” Genius squirmed where he sat, clearly feeling guilty for the list of transgressions. “Bad things always happen when I disobey. I should know better by now.”

Hotch pursed his lips and nodded a few times. “Well, there were definitely some bad things that could have happened as a result of what you did yesterday.” Then, just to see if he was on the right track, Hotch chanced a question he had initially been dreading. “Genius, do you know why we had to stop Owen?”

“Of course.” Genius rubbed the bandages on his arm, not a single note of hesitation in his voice. “Regardless of what should have been done to help Owen in the past, he was still on a killing spree. By the time you were gearing up to shoot him, he had already killed two people just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was unstable and a threat to everyone around him.”

“That’s correct.” Hotch nodded again, slower, and continued to press. “Do you understand why your behavior was unacceptable?”

“Of course,” Genius repeated himself with the same certainty, but he twisted his foot against the carpet and frowned, as if he still wasn’t sure he agreed. “I argued with the local authorities, which put you at a disadvantage because they projected their anger toward me at you. I ignored you, which made it look like you can’t control your team, which hurts morale and decreases the amount of respect between cooperating forces; that, in turn, decreases efficiency and productivity. I put lives in danger by confronting Owen alone. I caused stress for members of the team with my behavior, which distracted portions of everyone’s attention from the case.” He cocked his head to the side, frowning at his lap. “Do you want me to keep going? Because it might take a while. I did a lot.”

Hotch shook his head, the wheels in his mind turning faster as all the little pieces fell into place. “No, you don’t have to keep going, but I do want to know… if you already understand why your behavior was dangerous and wrong, why did you do it?”

“I dunno, it just…” Genius wriggled in place, lips twisting up, and he was suddenly unsure of himself. “Everyone was talking about him… wanting him to pay for what he did, but they… wouldn’t take responsibility for their involvement in how he turned out, and… they were… it just…” He emitted a noise of frustration, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. “It just wasn’t _fair_ , Agent Hotchner. I hate it when things aren’t fair.”

Hotch almost let out a sigh of relief as he finally, _finally_ understood.

Genius had been admitted to ICAP when he was twelve, and the rules on genius communication were very clear. Geniuses weren’t allowed to communicate with each other because they could form groups powerful enough to topple entire governments. Geniuses also weren’t allowed to communicate with the general public, because their superior intellect enabled them to manipulate people of lesser intelligence.

But who did that leave?

Genius hadn’t formed or maintained a single relationship since he was twelve. He had never learned how to compromise as an adult, or respect a difference in opinion, or pick which battles to fight, or empathize with people who made him feel angry or hurt. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to anyone that Genius had no social skills or impulse control.

Intellectually, Genius may have been well above his twenty-four years, but in every other regard, he was still a little boy tied naked to a goalpost.

Hotch could have spent the rest of his life kicking himself for missing the obvious, and it still wouldn’t have been enough. But kicking himself wouldn’t get anything done, so Hotch shoved his frustration out of the way and continued to dig for answers.

“Genius, if you know all this, why did you fight with me on the rooftop?” Hotch made sure to keep his tone inquiring rather than accusatory. “Did you think I was being unfair, too?”

Genius pulled his legs up onto the couch and wrapped his arms around them, burying his face in his knees. He shook his head and tried to curl in on himself a little more.

“Was it because I wouldn’t stand up for Owen like you thought I should?”

Genius shook his head again, shuddering slightly, fingers scratching at his shins.

Hotch wet his lips and tried to think back to the moments of conflict throughout the case. Owen had been the center of all of them. On the roof, Genius had revealed how his anger about Owen was rooted in his anger toward his own bullies; however, that only explained his frustration toward the town and the job that had to be done. It didn’t explain why he was angry with Hotch.

_Sheriff Hallum saw something nobody else did, and it was enough for him to go from enraged to shell-shocked in a split second. What happened right before that change?_

Hotch ran the scene over in his head. He couldn’t remember the lines word for word, but he remembered stepping in between Genius and Hallum. He had tried to talk the sheriff out of hitting Genius based on legal constraints, and then—oh.

“Genius,” Hotch started softly. “Were you angry because I didn’t stand up for you?”

Genius didn’t nod, but he didn’t shake his head, either. He curled up a little tighter and sniffed, shoulders quaking though no sound actually left his mouth.

“You wanted to be put first, didn’t you? Like you did for Owen?” Hotch leaned forward slightly, trying to get a look at Genius’ face. “But instead, you felt like we were ganging up on you. You felt like no one listened and no one cared, and that’s why you got so angry and defensive. Is that right?”

Genius let a few sobs escape, his hand starting to move toward his head.

“Genius, don’t scratch your face.” Hotch waited a second, but Genius dug his fingernails into his cheek anyway. “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t do that.” He took the offending hand and gently pulled it away.

Genius surrendered his hand, but he didn’t untangle himself in the slightest and kept his face hidden, saying nothing.

“Genius, why didn’t you just tell me?” Though Hotch was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

“I tried, but…” Genius squirmed, tears thick in his voice, and his hand flexed in Hotch’s as he tried to start scratching again. “But my brain just wouldn’t—I couldn’t make my mouth—I didn’t know what to do.” His fingers curled and flexed again, his free hand clawing at his pants. “I didn’t know how to—how to say what I was—I just didn’t know what to do.”

Hotch shushed him. “Shh, that’s okay.” He didn’t let go when Genius tried to pull his hand away. “I didn’t know that before, but now I do, so we can communicate better.”

Genius sniffed and shifted on the couch, using his free hand to wipe his eyes. “I’m really sorry, Agent Hotchner…”

Hotch pressed his lips together and considered the young man sitting next to him, a soft sigh slipping past his lips. He switched the hand he was holding onto Genius with and reached out with his recently freed arm, wrapping it around Genius’ shoulders and pulling him a little closer. “I forgive you, Genius,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, too.”

Genius sniffed and looked up at Hotch, confusion swimming in his wide, honey-brown eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have assumed I knew what you were thinking and feeling.” Hotch smiled slightly and squeezed Genius’ hand. “Unsurprisingly, you were right. I might be a profiler, but that doesn’t mean I know you inside and out.” He smiled a little wider, half-tempted to pull Genius into a full-blown hug like he would after an argument with Jack. “It’s also my responsibility as team leader to stay calm when other people lose their temper. I didn’t do that very well.”

Genius blinked rapidly, sniffed, and then blinked some more. He had a few tears trailing down his cheeks, and he seemed hesitant to so much as breathe. Like the moment would shatter if he didn’t use the utmost caution.

“I…” Genius looked at the lack of space between them and furrowed his brow, head tilting slightly. “You aren’t my mom.”

Hotch frowned, completely lost. “No…?”

Genius sniffed again, but he didn’t pull away. “I thought only moms gave hugs.”

Hotch felt a pang in his chest, and he allowed some of that sadness to bleed into his voice when he replied. “Your mother is the only person who ever hugged you?”

Genius offered a hesitant nod, his body uncurling just slightly. “Yeah. Do… other people normally hug?”

Hotch nodded his head. “It isn’t the most professional display of affection, but friends and family hug each other all the time.” He gave Genius a light squeeze to emphasize his point.

Genius looked at Hotch for another moment or two, and then he moved a little closer, slowly returning his feet to the floor. He hesitated, swallowed thickly, and then he reached for Hotch.

Hotch let go of Genius’ hand and watched with a smile on his lips as Genius wrapped his arms around Hotch’s torso.

Genius squeezed, stopped, shifted his arms, and squeezed again, like he couldn’t quite figure out what he was supposed to do. Seconds passed in that position, and then Genius ducked his head and pressed it against Hotch’s chest, sniffing.

“I like it,” Genius admitted quietly. “It’s nice.”

Hotch smiled and once again gave Genius a one-armed squeeze. “I like it, too.”

Genius pulled away then, wiping his face and idly scratching his bandaged arm a few times. “I, um… I can do some work, if you have any for me.”

Hotch shook his head and got to his feet, patting Genius on the shoulder. “No, I want you to lie down and get some sleep. You aren’t going back to ICAP today, and I have to get the team together for a meeting. You’re allowed to be in here unsupervised, okay?”

Genius seemed hesitant to accept the proposal, but then he slowly leaned onto his side and relaxed. “Okay… You won’t let me sleep the whole time, right? I want to, um, to spend time with you guys… before I go back… I f that’s okay…?” He tensed, fearing whatever repercussions his request might bring.

Hotch only smiled again—he was certain he had smiled more in the last hour than he had in the last year—and walked to the door. “I won’t let you sleep too long. You’ll spend time with the team, I promise.”

Genius smiled and then closed his eyes, letting out a big sigh. “Mm’kay…”

Hotch stepped out of the office and closed the door, taking a second to collect his thoughts before making a beeline for the conference room. “Meeting,” he called, knowing his tone alone would get his team where he wanted them in less than five minutes.

 _So much for talking to Morgan first. I guess we’re all discussing this at once._

* * *

Hotch turned toward the conference room door when JJ, the last to enter, came in with a stack of folders pressed against her chest. Seeing her hands full, Hotch stepped behind her and closed the door.

“So, what’s this about?” Morgan took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “Everything okay?”

Hotch nodded and made his way to the head of the table, opting to stand in front of the screen they normally used for case files. “It’s about Genius.”

Hotch instantly had the rapt attention of everyone at the table.

“Genius and I talked for a bit about the incidents in Texas, and I have a theory. I wanted to ask him some more questions to explore the idea, but I wanted your input first.” Hotch nodded in the general direction of his office. “He’s sleeping instead.”

Hotch paused briefly, thankful no one interrupted, and tried to figure out exactly how to phrase his epiphany. He decided the best place to start was the beginning, so he hit rewind and started building from the ground up.

“If I can help it, Genius is not going back to ICAP.” Hotch leaned against the table with both hands, looking from teammate to teammate as he spoke. “Initially, I planned on setting up some sort of scenario where he could consult on cases from Quantico, like he would from ICAP. It would keep him out of the field, but having him here would enable him to gain experience in the specific field of profiling, and he would become more useful over time.”

Rossi, never one to beat around the bush, arched a brow and pressed, “But…?”

Hotch had to smile slightly at that. “But,” he continued, “now I think we can help Genius behave better on field missions. If my theory is correct, doing this would take a lot of time and effort from this team, and I don’t know if it’s the kind of time and effort we have to give, but I do believe it’s doable.” Hotch wet his lips, glancing around the table and reading the expressions of his team to ensure they were all following along.

They were.

“So, what’s your theory?” Morgan asked, tilting his head with a curious brow.

“Genius has been in an ICAP facility since he was twelve.” Hotch paused briefly. “If you’re like me, you didn’t take the time to think about what that means for his social skills.” He paused again, waiting for the information to sink in.

It took a couple seconds, but soon Hotch was watching every face at the table express the same ‘aha’ moment he had experienced less than thirty minutes prior. Not that Hotch blamed them for missing the obvious, even if he blamed himself. Everyone knew how geniuses behaved, so why would his team try to find a psychological reason for the way Genius acted? It was normal. Profiling Genius would have been like walking down the street and deciding to figure out why there were double yellow lines in that particular section of road—they simply were. They were double yellow lines. They belonged there. It was normal.

Prentiss let out a heavy sigh and rubbed her forehead, probably kicking herself the same way Hotch had. “He’s never gone through his adolescent psychosocial stages.”

Morgan nodded thoughtfully, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Identity vs. Crisis and Intimacy vs. Isolation. He doesn’t know who he is or what he wants, he only knows what _we_ want from him, and when it doesn’t feel right, he starts freaking out.”

Prentiss nodded in agreement, gesturing with her hands as she built on Morgan’s statement. “It’s the same thing with relationships. He doesn’t know where the lines are. If he feels alone, he gets clingy and eager-to-please, but if he feels too attached, he lashes out to push them away. It _looks_ like mood swings.”

Rossi stroked his beard, thoughtful, but he didn’t say anything.

JJ shook her head, drumming her fingers on the stack of folders in front of her. “Not to mention, if he doesn’t actually need the mood stabilizers he’s on, they could be _causing_ half of the mood swings we see.” She sighed, sadness shading her normally bright blue eyes. “Poor Spence… his brain has got to be a complete mess.”

Hotch cleared his throat to draw the attention back to himself. “You’re all arriving at the same conclusion I did; however, this is where the difficult choice comes in. It takes a lot of time and effort to undo twelve years of damage. I think Genius could learn to function in the field, but it won’t be easy, and any time we spend with him outside the office would be on our own dime. He’s going to make mistakes, and we’re going to have to deal with the repercussions of those mistakes. We’ll—”

“We’ll be the only family he has.” Morgan let out a sigh and looked out the window at the closed door to Hotch’s office. “And it’ll be a full-time responsibility.”

Hotch nodded solemnly, allowing silence to fall over the room as his team thought over the proposition before them. No one made eye contact, all lost in their own thoughts, until Rossi spoke up and all eyes turned to him.

“He was jumping on the bed.” Rossi laughed softly, shaking his head with a lingering smile.

Hotch frowned. “What?”

Rossi didn’t stop smiling, and it seemed his ‘aha’ moment went further than anyone else’s. “He jumped on the bed in my guest room the very first night he stayed with me. I couldn’t figure out why. I shrugged it off as some sort of genius thing, but…” He shook his head again, a sort of disbelief invading his tone. “He was just… giggling like a little kid and jumping on the bed. You should’ve heard him. He was over the moon.”

Hotch felt a smile tug at his own lips, his eyes wandering over to his office before returning to the table.

JJ, on the other hand, seemed deeply disturbed by the revelation, and she dabbed her eyes with a small sniff. “Uh, my hometown church is very invested in fighting human trafficking. My parents went on a trip to Germany—it’s a huge problem over there—and they worked with a local organization. They, uh, they went into brothels and took gifts for the girls there, and these women…” She pressed her lips together for a moment, collected herself, and continued. “They have, uh, they’ve been in slavery since they were kids, and my mom said they just… sit on their beds with the stuffed animals they’re given, and they just hug them to their chest. They’re teenagers and young adults, many of them have babies of their own, but they get a stuffed animal and it’s like… it’s like they stopped aging the day they were taken.”

Hotch felt a sick twist in his gut, and he could tell the story had a similar effect on the rest of his team. Especially Morgan, who went from twirling to gripping his pen, the plastic creaking beneath his fingers.

_I guess it would be pretty traumatizing to go from the outside world to a prison-like setting at such a young age. And unfortunately, we can’t detect intelligence at the moment of birth and raise them in one environment or the other._

“My office is twice the size of yours, Hotch.”

Hotch pulled himself from his thoughts and shook his head, confused by Rossi’s second seemingly unrelated comment of the day.

“We could put our desks across from each other, put the couches up along the windows, and the bookshelves behind either of us. Your office could become Genius’ bedroom.”

Morgan snapped his fingers and pointed at Rossi. “I know a bunch of guys who can get me furniture at a great price. I normally use them to furnish the properties I renovate, so bedroom basics should be quick and cheap.”

JJ opened the folder on the top of her pile. “I already have most of the forms necessary for housing a genius, but I haven’t had time to fill them out. You’ll all have to keep in touch with me so I know what I have to requisition and what I don’t. I can give you a budget to work with, Morgan.”

Prentiss pulled her phone from her belt and stood up. “I’ll call Strauss. I have a little more pull with her, and I’m sure there are some political favors I can call on if she tries to give us a hard time.”

Hotch looked at him team a bit incredulously. “We aren’t going to talk about this first?”

Rossi gestured to the table, nonplussed. “We just did.”

Hotch stared for a moment more, and then he chuckled. “It looks like you made the decision before I even knew there was a decision to make.”

Morgan shrugged his shoulders. “You and I already talked about keeping Genius around, and I passed it on to them. All we had to think about here and now was whether we’re ready for the full-time responsibility of helping him get his head together.”

Hotch put his hands on his hips. “It was a pretty quick decision, given its severity.”

Prentiss spread her hands slightly, still holding her phone though she hadn’t dialed. “Was there any doubt?”

Hotch looked at her for a moment, and then his gaze traveled over the rest of his team. “Apparently not.” He straightened up and started for the door as he spoke. “Remember, this has to be on our time and dime. Our first priority is to get our job done; everything else comes after.” He frowned slightly, pausing in the doorway. “Besides, the first call we need to make is one I’d like to handle myself.”

JJ frowned slightly. “What call is that?”

“Psychiatrist.” Hotch made brief eye contact with Rossi, knowing the senior agent would be his righthand man in the coming days. “I think it’s time we figure out what Genius _really_ needs to be on.”

That was the understatement of the century.

* * *

Hotch drummed his fingers on the desk and leaned back in his chair, hissing a sigh under his breath. He let his gaze wander up to the ceiling, held his tongue for a moment more, and then stood up, patience obliterated.

“Agent Henderson, I don’t particularly care what your personal opinion on my decision is. Agent Jereau submitted a formal request for all records pertaining to Genius #2036334-4383 and any blockmates he had from the date of his admission to now. It was rejected for reasons unknown, and now that request has become a demand. ICAP has twenty-four hours to fax those files to Quantico. If you run into any trouble, you can reach me at this number. Have a good day.”

Hotch hung up and let out a fuller, deeper sigh as he pressed his cellphone to his forehead. He pushed his chair back and stood up, walking over to the window and inhaling slowly. He dropped his phone back to his side and let the air back out of his lungs, wondering what he had gotten himself into.

“You don’t have to keep me, you know.”

Hotch startled slightly and turned to look at the couch, feeling an odd combination of relief and concern when he saw Genius sitting there staring at him. “I thought you were still sleeping.”

Genius shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t want to interrupt.” He paused, looked down at his lap, and then shrugged again. “It doesn’t matter. I was just saying you can send me back now, if you’re done with me, and then make a request for my skills later. They’ll get me out here pretty quickly.”

Hotch didn’t say anything at first, turning to look out the window again.

 _I haven’t spoken to Strauss or requisitioned a custody transfer, but everyone on the team is behind the decision to keep Genius._ Hotch frowned, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. _I don’t like how difficult ICAP is being. If everything is being run as it should be, there should be nothing keeping them from sending me his information. Geniuses in the system have no right to privacy, and ICAP is just as much a part of the FBI as the BAU, so there shouldn’t be any jurisdictional problems._

“Agent Hotchner?” Genius spoke hesitantly, his voice small. “It, uh… it really is okay. I won’t run if you tell me I’m going back tonight. You don’t have to worry. I’ll behave. I just… I’d just like to know, that’s all.”

Hotch looked at Genius again and, after a moment of thought, joined him on the couch. He leaned against the arm closest to the window he had left, folding his hands in his lap and looking at Genius with expectant eyes.

“Tell me about ICAP.”

Genius blinked, clearly confused, but he began his answer regardless. “ICAP is a program developed by the government to gather, contain, and monitor—” He stopped abruptly when Hotch shook his head.

“I want you to tell me what it’s like. Tell me about some experiences you had there.”

Genius wet his lips, thinking about the request for a few moments. It didn’t look like he was composing a lie; more like he was trying to figure out if Hotch was safe. That, in and of itself, made Hotch more determined to get to the bottom of things.

“Um, there isn’t much to tell.” Genius shrugged his shoulders in nonchalance, but his telltale scratching started up immediately. “We don’t really do much there.”

Hotch felt a spark of frustration, but it didn’t last. He let the room get quiet, waited for the pressure to build a bit, and then tried again. “Pretend ICAP is going to admit me. From one genius to another, tell me what to expect.”

“You are _not_ a genius.” Genius snarled the words, getting in Hotch’s face and baring his teeth in a sudden surge of anger.

Hotch didn’t even blink. He remained completely calm, not scolding or looking disappointed at the outburst. “You’re right. I clearly bothered you by saying that, even if it was pretend. I’m sorry.”

Genius calmed almost immediately, squirming uncomfortably as he pulled himself back to his side of the couch. “Yeah.” He picked at his fingernails, looking down.

Hotch once again paused to let some silence pass between them. _Third time’s a charm._

“Pretend it really is one genius to another.” Hotch smiled briefly when Genius looked at him, but he kept his tone serious. “Let’s say we arrested someone and then realized they’re a genius. They’re here in the office now, waiting for ICAP to come pick them up. Tell me what you would tell them.”

Genius opened his mouth, his gut reaction just barely stopped in time for him to reconsider his words. He looked down at his lap, picked at his fingers, and started to speak.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Quietly.

“Um… well, you’ll have your own room. It’s nice. You get a bed and a dresser… clothes…” Genius scratched the back of his neck and shifted again. “You’ll, uh… you’ll be on the same block as three other geniuses. But you can’t talk to them. Really, we shouldn’t be talking now, but… Agent Hotchner made an exception.” He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Um, there’s a gym and a library, so that’s nice. But, um, but don’t forget you still can’t talk to anyone. If you’re really, really good, they’ll let you play video games. Only old ones, though, and nothing with violence.”

Hotch stayed perfectly still as he listened, processing the information without so much as a twitch of the lips. He wanted Genius to completely forget he was there, and even with his eyes closed, Genius was eerily perceptive.

“If, uh…” Genius started to wriggle in his seat again, a soft whimper rising in his throat. “If you, um… to get… in order to…” He took a haggard breath, scratched at his arm right where the bandages stopped, and pulled his legs up onto the couch. “Sometimes… sometimes, they ask you… to help them with…” He screwed his eyes shut and exhaled sharply. “You do special jobs for them, and… and they—they give you things. Like, to keep. I—I have two things. I… I did two special jobs.”

Hotch struggled not to react, disturbed by how upsetting the mysterious ‘special jobs’ were, but he kept his silence. _It upsets him, but there is clearly a part of him that wants—maybe even needs—to talk about it. Otherwise, he would have omitted it entirely._

Genius put his face in his hands and rubbed a few times, heaving a sigh. “You, uh… if you’re lucky, you’ll get a nice guard. They rotate them, but over time, you’ll see the same guard more than once. They, um, they sometimes let you talk to other geniuses on your block.”

Genius took a shuddering breath, and when he exhaled, he seemed to relax considerably. “Um, you can sometimes make friends when the nice guards are around. If you get to be on the same cell block as Genius #0366651-4381, definitely try to talk to her. You’ll know it’s her ‘cause she has rainbow hair.”

Genius seemed to ease up a bit more with every sentence that wasn’t about the ‘special jobs.’ He even laughed a little, opening his eyes for a second before deciding it would ruin the scenario he had in his head.

“Nobody knows how she does it.” Genius put a hand to his mouth to cover his smile. “None of the guards can figure it out. She won’t tell anyone. She wouldn’t even tell me! But her hair is still rainbow after several years with no access to dye. Or at least it was the last time I saw her.”

Hotch allowed the faintest of smiles to pull at his mouth, but he kept his breathing even and his body still as a statue.

“Um, there’s another one. Genius #6319314-4436. He’s a lot of fun, but he gets into a lot of trouble, just like 4381.”

 _4381?_ It took Hotch a second to realize Genius meant the girl with the rainbow hair.

“But he’s not bad, he’s just…” Genius laughed again, though it sounded more like a giggle that time around. “He, um, he used to show me magic tricks. He could do a trick with anything! He loved to tell stories, and you could never figure out which ones were true and which ones were fake. He… he did…” His discomfort returned in full force. “He did… a lot of special jobs. I don’t know how many, but… he had a lot of things.” He started to scratch again, lips quivering.

_I might have to snap him out of this… I need to know, but it could be too much, too soon._

“One day, he just… they took him for a special job… and he never came back.”

Hotch slowly straightened up, trying to figure out whether or not to discuss the elephant in the room. Genius looked like he needed a break, and Hotch didn’t want to overwhelm him, but…

_If ICAP really is up to something, what lengths would they go to in order to keep their secret? What lengths have they already gone to?_

Hotch didn’t know if ICAP could take a genius back by force. He didn’t know if trying to keep Genius would do more harm than good.  

He didn’t even know if ICAP _was_ up to something.

Everything Genius had talked about made sense. It was extreme, yes, but that was to be expected with geniuses. No technology, no conversation, and very limited access to anything that could become a weapon or aid in an escape.

But those ‘special jobs’ just didn’t sit right with him.

_What are you thinking? You don’t even know he’s telling the truth. There’s a reason geniuses are kept under lock and key. They’re more likely to be sociopaths, they’re capable of building weapons of mass destruction with everyday objects, and they can easily break whatever law they want and get away with it. You know this. You were trained for this. He’s smarter than you—so much smarter—and you’re letting him play you._

Hotch wet his lips and swallowed, torn, frustrated with himself for not having an answer.

“Genius, your friend wants to know what will happen if he breaks the rules.”

Genius didn’t like the question, but it didn’t cause him nearly as much panic as the ‘special jobs.’ He scratched his arm a few times, humming for a second before he answered.

“Depends. If you break a small one, you just lose privileges.” Genius shrugged his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his legs, hugging his knees to his chest. “If you’re really bad they can hit you, but most of them don’t… of the sixty-two guards that rotate through my block, only twenty-seven of them hit me. There are seventeen others who don’t hit me, but they will hit someone who breaks the rules all the time. I’m usually a good boy, so…” he grinned, a devilish smirk, “…they let me off the hook when I’m bad.”

Hotch nodded slowly and tried to decide where to go next. _Do I believe him or not? How do I know for sure?_ He slowly opened his mouth, wishing he could borrow some of Genius’ processing speed.

“Genius, your friend wants to know how hard they—”

Hotch stopped when his phone vibrated against his chest, and he quickly pulled it out.

 

_Incoming Call…_

_ICAP_

 

He was out of time.

“Genius, your friend wants to know about the special jobs he might—”

“No!” Genius screamed the word and opened his eyes, smacking the couch cushions and shouting at Hotch as if scolding him. “No! No, no, no. You do _not_ talk about the special jobs! You don’t talk to other geniuses, you don’t talk to outsiders, you don’t even talk to your _guards._ Never, ever, ever talk about the special jobs! It’s bad! It’s very, very, _very—_ ”

“Genius, be quiet. That’s an order.” Hotch said it as quickly as he could and then hit the green button, standing up out of habit. “Agent Hotchner.”

“Hello. This is Section Chief Jason Bale from ICAP. I understand there was some miscommunication about a file transfer…?”

 _Why would a section chief call about a file transfer?_ Hotch started to walk around the office, as he often did when on the phone, his body language idle despite his inner conflict. “I believe you may have been misinformed about the situation.”

“Oh? How so?”

Hotch laughed good-naturedly, every decibel fake. “I doubt instructions as clear as the ones I gave could be miscommunicated. ICAP is going to send the files for Genius #2036334-4383 and his past and present blockmates to me within the next twenty-four hours.”

Bale chuckled condescendingly, his voice warm and sweet when he spoke. “Well, I think right there is the miscommunication, Agent Hotchner. ICAP doesn’t send files to any other division.”

“Oh.” Hotch paused, feigning a moment of understanding. “Well, that won’t be a problem. I’ll have one of my agents come and pick up the files tomorrow morning.”

Bale paused and let out a quick sigh, his tone still light. “You misunderstand me. ICAP keeps all of its information strictly in-house. You cannot have access to those files.”

“Then you misunderstand me.” There wasn’t a single note of hesitation. “I’m not making a request.” Too many things didn’t make sense. “I’m getting the files.” He had to know more. “You simply need to decide if you want to send them to me, or if you want me to dig them up myself.”

Bale was silent, no doubt trying to think of a reply, but Hotch didn’t give him that chance.

“I’ll have one of my agents fax the request again, and we’ll send a confirmation fax when we receive the files tomorrow. I really appreciate your cooperation, Chief Bale. Have a good night now.”

Hotch hung up his phone and let out a long stream of air.

_Well, there’s no going back now. I picked a fight with a section chief._

But how could he not? Between the ‘special jobs’ and Genius’ odd behavior, not to mention the part where a section chief made a phone call about low-level paperwork… Hotch couldn’t walk away from that.

“Agent Hotchner…”

Hotch turned to look at Genius somewhat distractedly, his phone still in his hand. “Yes?”

Genius looked up at him, unmistakable fear in his eyes. “Um, wh-why…” He cleared his throat, swallowed, and tried again. “Why do you want my files? Did I—I mean, if you don’t want to send me back, then… are you… sending me away somewhere else?”

Hotch didn’t say anything at first, but then he shook his head. He slipped his phone into his pocket and returned to the couch, sitting down with a sigh.

“Well, we’re going to be working together quite a bit. It’s only logical that I would want access to your files.”

Genius twisted his lips, less afraid and more confused. “Do you need me for that many cases?”

Hotch wet his lips. “I don’t know what cases you’ll help on yet. But you’re going to stay here, under my authority, with my team. I think it makes sense to keep a copy of your files here, too.”

“Wait, if you don’t know…” Genius shook his head, scratching at his bandages. “I—I can’t stay if I’m not working a case. I have to go back to ICAP.”

Hotch shook his head, gently pushing Genius’ hand away from the tape and gauze. “No, not anymore.”

“Did you sign a contract?” Genius tilted his head to the side. “Like, um, like a two-year plan? I know a genius who did that with the CIA.”

Hotch looked down for a moment, struggling with himself. _You can’t jerk him around, Hotchner. You have to be sure._ Hotch lifted his gaze and stared at Genius, making eye contact with serious intent. _You’re making a mistake._

“Genius, you aren’t going back to ICAP. Okay? You are staying here, in the BAU, with me and my team.” Hotch hesitated one last time. “Permanently.”

Genius inhaled sharply, frozen in a moment of shock. His breathing picked up, and his eyes began to water. He blinked rapidly, and Hotch could see the calculations flying through his eyes, his hands starting to twitch as his brain processed the concept.

“I—permanently?” Genius started breathing a little faster, almost panting, and his eyes had never been wider. “I can stay? With you? With the team? Here? Always?”

Hotch nodded. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

There was barely time to finish the sentence before Genius was throwing his arms around Hotch’s neck. Hotch grunted at the impact, getting a hand on either side of Genius to hold him steady, and he was struck momentarily speechless.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, _thank you._ ” Genius whispered in Hotch’s ear, his shoulders jerking. “I will _never_ disobey you again, I promise. I’ll—” he let out a harsh sob, “—I’ll never break the rules or be disrespectful, and I’ll be good. I’ll—I’ll be perfect, I promise.” He squeezed Hotch tightly, clinging to the agent like a lifeline. “Thank you, Agent Hotchner. Thank you, thank you, thank you, just—just thank you so much. Thank you.”

Hotch was still in a daze, but he somehow managed to reciprocate the hug. He rubbed Genius’ back, vaguely aware of hot tears soaking into his shirt collar. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out for several seconds.

“It’s okay, Genius. It’s… it’s alright. You don’t have to be perfect.” Hotch shushed him quietly. “It’s alright. Don’t cry.”

Genius laughed, still holding on tight. “But they’re happy tears, Agent Hotchner!” He laughed again, but his voice was still thick. “I’ve never been so happy, Agent Hotchner. I didn’t know a person _could_ be this happy.”

Hotch didn’t have anything to say to that, so he fell silent and continued to hold on.

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner.” Genius was whispering again, and Hotch could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met in my whole life.”

And that was the moment Hotch knew.

He knew he had made the right decision. He knew ICAP was up to something. He knew Genius wasn’t playing him.

From a logical perspective, there was still a good chance Genius was lying or exaggerating. There was no proof of malicious happenings or intent in ICAP. His team would keep their guard up with Genius for a while—as they should, as they were trained to do—and Hotch knew he couldn’t prove his perspective to anyone.

But he _knew._

“Hey,” Hotch said softly, pushing Genius away just enough so they could see each other’s faces. “Rossi invited everyone over for dinner tonight. Is that going to be okay? Or do you need some space?”

Genius smiled up at him, lashes clumped together with tears. “It’s definitely okay.”

Hotch smiled back. “Well, you might want to get yourself cleaned up a bit before we go.”

Genius hopped to his feet and bounded to the door, stopping only when Hotch called for him.

“Ah, Genius. Don’t say anything to the team. I mean, about you staying permanently.” Then, not wanting to dampen the mood, Hotch flashed a smile and added, “It’s a surprise.”

Genius nodded a few times, still grinning, and then he was off.

Hotch let out a heavy sigh and sank back into the couch cushions, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine coming on, and he hadn’t even _begun_ to scratch the surface of _anything._

 _I guess it’s official. I’ll have to start my investigation into ICAP._ Hotch paused, a slight smirk curling his lips. _Hmm. Investigating an entire division of the FBI while raising an erratic genius_ and _hunting down psychopathic serial killers? How’s that for a special job?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to state from the get-go that the 'special jobs' are not sexual in nature; ICAP is not secretly running a brothel or something like that.


	5. Chapter 5

“It looks great, Morgan.”

“Yeah, well, I still have my doubts about the color.”

Hotch smiled slightly at the now bright orange walls in his old office. “I didn’t like it in theory, but looking at it now, it isn’t bad.” He nodded toward the ceiling. “You didn’t go all the way up.”

Morgan stepped off the ladder and put his paint roller in the tray. “There’s gonna be a blue strip about four inches wide going around the top. Baseboard, too. You know, like bright, royal blue. Put a swoosh on the wall, and it’ll pass for a pair of Nikes.”

Hotch chuckled softly at that, walking closer to the windows. He pointed to the pencil marks on the wall and gave Morgan a curious look.

“Oh, that’s for shelves.” Morgan wiped his hands on a shop rag and tossed it over his shoulder, joining Hotch by the windows. “I had to make’em custom so they would fit right. Nothing too fancy, just three corner shelves. I figure we’re gonna put, you know, a minifridge there, and then a microwave on top, and use the shelves for snacks or drinks. He’s gonna have under-bed storage, and my middle man is working on finding me a standing closet, so it’s not like he’ll need the space for anything else.”

Hotch looked at Morgan, unable to keep from grinning.

Morgan simply continued to nod and stare at the corner, hands on his hips, evaluating his pet project and sketching blueprints in his head.

Hotch raised a brow. “You think maybe you’re having a little too much fun with this?”

“Hey.” Morgan pointed a finger at him, then returned to his paint roller. “This is my day off. I can have as much fun as I want.”

Hotch only laughed and started for the door. “If it were my day off, I would join you, but there’s a huge stack of paperwork with my name on it.”

Morgan winced sympathetically, already back on the ladder. “I don’t envy you, man.”

Hotch replied with a snort and walked out the door, making his way to the adjacent office.

Thankfully, his desk had always been back-to-back with Rossi’s, so when Hotch moved, nothing got switched around. Still, it took some getting used to. He had already thrown his briefcase on the floor once, having expected a couch to be on his left as soon as he walked through the door. Fortunately, he had remembered every time since, and as he went to put his briefcase down, the only difficulty he had was not staring at the files ICAP had sent.

Because they had sent files. It had taken three days of nagging and demanding and, eventually, threatening, but they sent files.

Initially, Hotch had felt a sense of victory when JJ told him they received a massive fax from ICAP, but when he laid eyes on his printed prize, Hotch had only one thought.

_This can’t be everything I asked for._

Hotch shed his coat and picked a file off the top, curiosity taking precedent over paperwork. He opened it up and started leafing through the pages, coming to the immediate conclusion that large portions had been removed.

Everything subjective in nature was either missing or blacked out. Notes from doctors, psychiatrists, guards, and other personnel were nowhere to be seen. If Genius had said anything to the staff, it wasn’t on the pages Hotch had, and given the nature of the document he was looking at, Genius had _definitely_ said something. He wouldn’t have been given a choice.

_Basically, they took out everything helpful._

Still, Hotch sat down and started to read.

Paperwork? What paperwork?

> _Full Name: Spencer Lawrence Reid_
> 
> _Date of Admission: 04/25/95_
> 
> _Current Medications: **/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////**_
> 
> _Office Notes: Patient was found in room, convulsing and unresponsive. Sent **///////////////////** for gastric suction **//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////** to combat overdose. Suicide watch initiated upon transition to ICAP psych ward. **//////////////////** discontinued. Patient will be returned to room after forty-eight hours and remain on suicide watch until cleared by attending psychiatrist._
> 
> _Doctor’s Notes: **//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////** …_

…and then there were no more pages, the next sheet in the folder being the release form, which had been similarly redacted.

It seemed the battle for information was not over.

Of course, Hotch fully intended to use what little they gave him, but it was disheartening nonetheless; especially if the rest of the documents had as much patchwork text as the one in his hands.

 _It doesn’t make sense for the medications to be crossed out._ He frowned and went back to the cover sheet. _Unless the overdose wasn’t an overdose. It could have been an error on the part of a psychiatrist or doctor. Medications with adverse reactions get prescribed at the same time, Genius nearly dies as a result, and they use an overdose story to hide their mistake._

It wasn’t much, but it was a theory, and that gave him a starting point.

Hotch already knew Genius had attempted suicide three times, so if Hotch went through the available records and found more than three attempts, it would confirm the cover story idea. Once he had confirmation, he would have some idea of where to look next and what files to obtain.

Of course, that was only _one_ theory.

Use of illegal drugs was on the list of possibilities, along with the existence of an inside drug ring. Genius might have obtained the medication he overdosed on not by collecting his daily doses until he had a lethal amount, but by purchasing them from a guard or psychiatrist. That brought up the problem of money, seeing as geniuses weren’t allowed to have any, but it didn’t eliminate the idea entirely. Genius might have done one of his ‘special jobs’ to get the drugs.

_If it really was a suicide attempt, knowing why Genius attempted in the first place would be helpful. If it was a sudden, spur of the moment decision—maybe one triggered by severe side effects or an outside stimulant—then he wouldn’t have had the chance to hoard what he needed._

Of course, every one of his theories could have been wrong. Every one of his theories could have been right. All three of them could have been right but still not the true root of the problem. Hotch really had no idea, and until he gained access to real information, he had to use speculation to fill some rather impressive gaps.

Hotch snapped the folder shut and shook his head. _Paperwork. I have paperwork to finish, and then I can work on my pseudo-investigation._

He gathered the files from ICAP and put them on the nearby sofa, returning to his desk and starting his computer. He drummed his fingers as he waited for the machine to power up, a frown slowly contorting his features.

_If the overdose was genuine, what does that say about Genius’ mental state at the time? If he had hanged himself, he most likely would have succeeded. Overdosing isn’t the most reliable way to commit suicide, and he would have known that, so… was he secretly hoping someone would stop him? Maybe it was more of a cry for help than a genuine desire to die._

It would make sense. Genius was so, _so_ starved for affection, Hotch could easily see him attempting suicide just to know that someone, somewhere would bother to keep him alive.

Even if it was only because they were paid to.

_He would have been… fourteen, according to the date of admission. ICAP might have censored the medications, but I can still tell the list was long. He was in the beginning of puberty, had been recently removed from his home and separated from his mother, and was potentially overmedicated. He probably didn’t even know which thoughts and feelings were his anymore._

Hotch jumped when his computer finally loaded, the deafening and unmistakable Windows Chime™ telling him he had left the volume up.

_I can’t think about Genius right now. I have work to do._

“Hey, Hotch!”

_Or not._

Morgan stepped into the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow with a shop rag. “You know where Pretty Boy got off to?”

Hotch arched a brow. “Pretty Boy?”

“What? I’ve used it before.”

“Yes, once.”

“Twice,” Morgan corrected, holding up the appropriate number of digits.

Hotch grimaced. “Please don’t tell me it’s going to become a regular nickname.”

Morgan shrugged. “I dunno, man. I get tired of calling him Genius all the time. Imagine if we all named each other after our occupations.”

Hotch pursed his lips, mildly amused by the idea. “There would be a lot of confusion every time someone said, ‘Agent.’”

Morgan chuckled at that. “Yeah, well, you get my point. Seriously, though, where is he?”

“JJ took him shopping, I think. They’ve been gone at least a half an hour now.”

Morgan nodded a few times. “Got it. I’ll catch him when they get back. I have some questions about his room.”

“Mhm.” Hotch started typing, silently reminding Morgan—and himself—that he had work to do.

Morgan got the message and left with a quiet chuckle.

 _Paperwork._ Hotch sighed. _Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork._

He could do it. He could focus. He could get things done.

He could totally focus and get things done.

He could.

Totally.

* * *

Rossi couldn’t help but grin to himself when he saw Hotch sitting on the floor in a sea of files, and he briefly wondered if coming to get his lucky pen had been a good idea.

“I see you broke out the DSM.”

Hotch didn’t even glance up from the book in his lap, circling a few things as he spoke. “I found something interesting. I found a lot of things, actually, but the latest development is unusual diagnoses.”

Rossi looked at the mess for a moment and then sat on the couch, facing Hotch. “Well, tell me what you got.” Definitely a bad idea to come for the lucky pen.

Hotch nodded a few times and tucked his pencil behind his ear. “I think Genius is too overmedicated for any diagnoses to be made or confirmed today, but I do believe he has multiple mental disorders. He was right in saying he doesn’t have Tourette’s, and I doubt he has Schizoaffective Disorder.”

Rossi crinkled a brow and leaned back, propping his ankle on the opposite knee and considering the agent before him. “Explain.”

“Well, does he seem delusional to you?”

Rossi pressed his lips together and inhaled slowly. “Aaron, I think you and I have the kind of relationship where I can be straight with you.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “You _do_ think he’s delusional?”

“I didn’t say that.” Rossi chose his words carefully, able to tell through profiling and years of friendship that Hotch was passionately invested in their latest addition. “I think it’s great that you want to go to bat for the kid, but you’re starting to get tunnel vision.”

Hotch paused, glancing down at his lap with a crinkled brow, and Rossi pressed on.

“Those ‘special jobs’ he told you about? Those could be delusions. You said he mentioned other geniuses; those could have been hallucinations, and when the one genius went away and never came back, that could have been the treatment plan working. His mother is schizophrenic, so he’s got the genes for it.” Rossi spread his hands slightly, as if physically presenting the idea. “If they had diagnosed him with full-on schizophrenia, I would find it harder to believe, but schizoaffective disorder isn’t that far-fetched.”

Hotch considered the papers in his lap, silent for several moments, fingers drumming on the folder to his left. “I know he’s not crazy, Dave.”

“Good.” Rossi nodded his head. “You’re trusting your gut, and you should, but don’t lose your ability to play the devil’s advocate. Remember, in the end, it’s not me you have to convince; it’s the higherups, a judge, and a jury.”

Hotch looked at the book for another moment and nodded his head. “You’re right.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I really don’t have any evidence.”

Rossi gave a sideways sort of nod. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong, it just means you have to dig deeper. You said you requested files on Genius’ blockmates, right?”

Hotch nodded.

“No one corrected you, so we know there were other geniuses there. We can get information on them and see if it matches what Genius told you about his friends. If it doesn’t, they were hallucinations, if it does, that’s one less piece of evidence against Genius.”

Hotch grabbed a piece of paper and started scratching down notes. “I’ll work on getting those.” He paused, thoughtful. “There’s also the layered nature of mental illness. There are dozens of symptoms that overlap, and a lot of times, you have to already have one mental disorder to even qualify for another.”

Rossi reached out and wiggled his fingers, indicating he wanted the book. “I think schizoaffective is one of those.” He went back a couple pages. “Uh… yeah, here. Genius would have to have the symptoms listed _while_ suffering from a period of illness; in this case, psychotic illness.” He tapped the page a few times. “Before we even think about schizoaffective disorder, we’ve got to go through all the psychotic disorders and figure out which one he has, if any. Now, I haven’t looked at the kid’s files, but I bet there are dozens of overlapping diagnoses like this.”

Hotch nodded his head a few times, looking around the mess. “Um… yeah, yeah, here. He was diagnosed with a mood disorder, which we knew, but not a specific one. According to the DSM, it has to be difficult to choose between Bipolar Disorder, Unspecified and Depressive Disorder, Unspecified before you can diagnose someone with Mood Disorder, Unspecified.” He looked up at Rossi and shook his head. “They diagnosed him with Major Depressive Disorder. By _definition,_ he can’t have Depressive Disorder, Unspecified. That leaves Bipolar Disorder, Unspecified, so there is no difficult decision.”

Rossi actually felt a little excited when he heard that. “Good.” He clapped his hands together and slid onto the floor, grabbing a few files of his own. “See, that’s the kind of stuff we need. We start with the stuff we can definitely eliminate with proof, and then we start arguing with ICAP over the gray areas.”

“Dave.”

“Hmm?”

When there was no response, Rossi looked up, a smile tugging at his lips when he saw Hotch holding up one hand. Rossi quickly gave him the high-five and got back to the papers. “It sucks that we don’t have any office notes. It would be nice to know _why_ they diagnosed him with all these different disorders.”

“Oh, you noticed the censorship?”

Rossi rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well… we’ll just have to keep poking the bear.”

Hotch laughed but didn’t say anything else.

Silence fell over the room, and while Rossi kept an eye on the clock, he was in no hurry to leave. He might not have been as skeptical of ICAP as Hotch was, but he definitely cared about Genius. He would do anything he could to help the kid stabilize in his new environment and adapt a healthy lifestyle. If starting from scratch with medical files was the way to do it, Rossi would pay for every psychiatric and medical appointment himself.

“Dave, what do you think about Bipolar I?” 

* * *

“Thanks for taking me shopping, Agent Jereau.”

JJ looked up from her ice cream cone and offered a quick smile. “It was my pleasure, Genius.” She licked the dessert a few times. “Do you like everything you got?”

Genius nodded his head rapidly and took a bite of his own cone. “I can’t wait to wear a new outfit tomorrow.” He barely got the last word out before a frown tugged at his lips. “Do you think I’ll be able to do that? It’s… been a long time since I picked my own clothes.”

JJ paused, thinking back to the hours they had spent combing through the racks at Salvation Army. Genius had collected quite the array of vibrantly-colored, obnoxiously-patterned shirts and ties, and during several of his trips to the fitting rooms, JJ had wondered if she could get away with sneaking some to the return rack. If not, she wondered whether she would be able to talk him into putting them back himself without making a scene. Ultimately, JJ had come to an extraordinarily simple conclusion.

“Genius, if you look in the mirror and what you see makes you happy, then you picked a good outfit.” JJ kept her tongue on the ice cream and twisted the cone with her hand. “That’s all there is to it.”

And if anyone had a differing opinion they felt the need to voice, JJ would deal with them.

Personally.

“You really think so?” Genius bit his lip, scratched his arm a few times, and took another big bite. “You think it’s okay that I like… really, really bright things?”

JJ smiled at him, the epitome of encouraging support. “If I spent the last twelve years of my life surrounded by gray, I would like bright things, too.”

Genius laughed nervously, uncertain words slipping between his lips. “Yeah, um… gray is _really_ boring. Even black and white would be better. Black is black, and white is white, y’know? But gray is… well, what is it? Faded black? Dirty white?” He laughed again, even more nervous than before, and JJ immediately realized he was trying to make a joke.

So, she smiled and laughed along. Maybe it wasn’t the funniest thing she ever heard, but delivery had a lot to do with humor, and if nobody encouraged Genius to be funny, he would never learn how to get the timing right.

“Agent Jereau, what’s your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

JJ pursed her lips, considering the question before replying. “Back home, there was this ice cream place called 3B’s. They sold teaberry ice cream, and it was the _best_ teaberry ice cream in existence.”

Genius tilted his head to the side, curious and perplexed. “What… is teaberry?”

“They’re like… they taste a bit like Canadian mints, but they’re tiny red balls. They’re almost like sprinkles.” She laughed a little as she came to a realization. “You could, conceivably, put teaberries on teaberry flavored ice cream.”

Genius nodded slowly, a look of intense contemplation in his eyes. “Hmm.” He snapped out of his trancelike staring contest with the picnic table, a wide smile parting his lips. “I would like to try that someday, Agent Jereau.”

JJ licked what ice cream she still could before finally caving and biting into the cone. “Someday,” she said, covering her mouth, “I’ll take you to my hometown.”

Genius’ eyes lit up, mouth stopping halfway to his ice cream. “Really? I would—I would really like that, Agent Jereau!”

“You don’t even know where I’m from.” JJ laughed and took another bite.

Genius laughed too, more joyous than amused. “It doesn’t matter. I would love to see more of the world.” He paused to finish his cone, crumpling the wrapper in his hand. “Where _are_ you from, Agent Jereau?”

“Pennsylvania.” JJ was just a few bites behind him, the ice cream very nearly spilling over the edge as it melted. “Nowhere in the city, though. I was a small town girl.”

“Livin’ in a lonely world?” Genius asked, a brow raised slightly.

JJ laughed aloud. “Who says you’re no good at socializing?”

Genius shrugged his shoulders and smiled sheepishly, cheeks flushing.

JJ finished her ice cream and hopped to her feet, dusting off her hands. “So, you asked me some questions. It’s your turn to answer.”

“Answer what?” Genius blinked a few times, completely lost.

“Favorite ice cream flavor and hometown.” JJ held out her hand for his wrapper and took it, along with hers, to the nearby trash can. “Come on. It’s only fair.”

Genius seemed surprised for another moment or two, but then he brought out that toothy grin he seemed so fond of. “I’m from Las Vegas, and… my favorite ice cream flavor is silly.”

JJ quirked a brow. “How can it be silly?”

Genius shrugged. “Everyone always laughs.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s silly. It could be cool or interesting or enjoyable.” JJ nudged him on the shoulder and smiled. “You can tell me, Spen—Genius. You can tell me anything.”

Genius bit down on his lip, dropped his gaze to the dirt, and shrank in on himself. “Vanilla.”

JJ didn’t miss a beat. “With or without sprinkles?”

He seemed genuinely surprised when she didn’t laugh, and it was with a hesitant smile that he answered, “With.”

“Rainbow or chocolate?”

Genius made a face. “Ew. Rainbow, every time.”

JJ did laugh at that, but her only comment was, “Classics never go out of style, Genius.”

Genius smiled at that, clearly relieved by her lack of ridicule, and got to his feet. “So, back to Agent Rossi’s house?”

JJ shook her head and started for the car. “No, I got a text from Morgan. He has some questions about your new room, so I’m taking you to Quantico, and then Morgan will take you back to Rossi’s. Okay?”

Genius nodded his head rapidly, an excited giggle rising in his throat. “I can’t believe I get my own room.”

They both got into the car, and JJ put her keys in the ignition. “I just hope it doesn’t take too long for us to get it ready for you.”

Genius turned his head and looked at her, nothing but adoration in his eyes. “Agent Jereau, you could keep me in a kennel, and I would be happy.”

JJ wet her lips, swallowing around the lump that formed in her throat. “We would never put you in a kennel, Genius.”

Genius didn’t lose his exuberant smile. “I didn’t think so; you guys are too nice. But, you know…” He shrugged and looked out the window, tone still peppy. “Like, if you couldn’t get the permanent residency approved or ran out of funding or if I was bad…” He shrugged again. “Well, I would still be happy. That’s all I meant.”

JJ’s heart clenched, but she maintained her outward composure. She wanted Genius to have a very specific idea of who she was: calm, strong, compassionate, but above all, level-headed. She wanted Genius to know he could tell her anything, and she would never respond with shock or disgust or anger. She wanted to be a person Genius instinctively classified as safe.

“Genius,” she said softly, putting a hand on his knee. “We will _never_ put you in a kennel. If you do something wrong, you are still keeping your room. It will be yours, and no one will take it from you. If, for some reason, you couldn’t go to your room, you would come home with someone on the team.” She smiled slightly, meeting his eyes and praying he saw nothing but care and compassion. “Okay?”

Genius considered the words for a moment, and then he started to smile and nod. It was slight, just a faint jerk of the head and a twitch of the lips, but it was there.

“Thank you, Agent Jereau.” His smile broadened a bit. “Thank you so much.” He leaned toward her, reaching out an arm, but then came to an abrupt stop. “Um…”

JJ simply kept looking at him. “What is it?” she prodded gently.

“Well, it’s just…” Genius dropped his arm and fidgeted in his seat. “I just… Agent Hotchner said that sometimes… sometimes friends hug each other. You just… you just made me really happy with what you said, and I was wondering… I was thinking maybe…” He looked down, as if ashamed. “Can I hug you, Agent Jereau?”

Genius was three for three in the heartbreak department.

“Of _course_ you can, Genius. You can always, _always_ hug me.”

Genius let out a little noise of delight and threw his arms around her, squeezing tightly with another whispered, “Thank you, Agent Jereau.”

“You are so very welcome, Genius.”

It was a good thing he couldn’t see her face. She didn’t want him to feel responsible for her tears. 

* * *

“Is that… is that a planner?”

Hotch glanced up from the book in front of him, startled.

JJ covered her mouth, clearly trying not to laugh. “What, are you a soccer mom now?”

Hotch maintained a scowl for no more than three seconds, and then he caved. “Soccer dad, thank you very much.” He looked back down at the planner. “Jack actually has been talking about joining a soccer team.”

JJ approached the desk and looked over his shoulder. “Seriously, why the planner? You usually keep everything on your phone.” She squinted and leaned a little closer. “Are you color coordinating your ink?”

Hotch let out a sigh and looked up at her, irritation seeping from every pore. “Yes, JJ, I am color coordinating the ink on my soccer dad monthly planner.” He once again failed to stay mad. “It’s for Genius. Well, it’s for me, but it’s for me for him.”

JJ gave him a questioning look, and with a twist of embarrassment in his gut, he started to explain.

“My schedule is in black ink, and anything scheduled for Genius is in blue. For example…” He pointed to July 27th. “He has an appointment with the new psychiatrist next week. I’m in a meeting that day, so…” He held up the red pen. “Rossi is going to stick around and keep an eye on things, which it says right there. If the date is circled in red, it means Genius can stay with Rossi that night.”

“What color am I?”

Hotch looked up from his project, a slight frown tugging at his lips. “You?”

“Yes, me.” JJ was dead serious, clearly intending to be involved. “I wouldn’t mind letting him stay with me. I have the room, and I would love his company. Also, once his room is finished, he’ll need someone to take him shopping again. Someone will have to get his groceries, too, or at least drive him to the store. Oh, and we need to schedule social appointments for him.”

“Social appointments?” Hotch echoed, both amused and surprised by JJ’s sudden and intense involvement in Genius’ life.

“You know what the job is like, Hotch. If we don’t schedule things like taking him for coffee or getting him a library card, it’ll never happen. He’s never going to learn to interact with people in a healthy way if he doesn’t get out.” JJ snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “We should get him a map. Morgan said it really freaked him out when he got lost, but with his eidetic memory, it would be easy for him to memorize the layout of everything in and around Quantico. It would be a great way for him to learn independence. You know, running for coffee by himself or just taking a walk around the property.”

Hotch leaned back in his chair and watched her carefully, a faint smile touching his features. “You seem to have put a lot of thought into this.” He paused. “Why the sudden interest?”

JJ frowned, a bit offended. “What do you mean?”

“Well, everyone on this team is invested in Genius, but he’s been here for… eight days now, and all of a sudden, you’re just…” Hotch rolled his hand, letting her brain fill in the blank for him. “Did something happen?”

JJ looked down at her hands, toying with the ring on her right index finger. “A lot of things happened.”

But she didn’t say anything further.

“Is there… something else you came in here for?” he ventured, watching her cautiously.

JJ inhaled to clear her sinuses, and when she looked back up at him, there was no moisture in her eyes. “Yes. Strauss called and said we have a case. She said it’s sensitive, and she wants to discuss it with you, personally, in her office.”

Hotch couldn’t help the instinctual sensation of dread brought on by imminent interaction with the section chief, but he tried to maintain his professionalism. “I’ll go there now. Gather everyone in the conference room?”

“Can do.” JJ nodded and left to follow orders.

Hotch let out a sigh and got to his feet, deciding there was no point in putting off the inevitable. He grabbed his cell phone and headed for the door, stopping just long enough to glance at the stack of ICAP files he and Rossi had only gotten halfway through.

_Easy, Hotchner. Rome wasn’t built in a day._

Hotch shook his head. He had a job to do. 

* * *

“I’m sorry you had to stay behind because of me.”

JJ looked up from the case file in her hands and found herself mesmerized by Genius’ outfit for the third time that day.

Black cargo pants, a white t-shirt with black words, and a white button-down with paint splatters of various colors, which he let hang open. He wore his tie—a brightly colored collage of tropical flowers on a blue background—loose enough that the knot hung at his sternum. He had walked into the office that morning with a black fedora on his head, plain converse on his feet, and a giddy smile on his face.

But it looked right on him. JJ couldn’t explain it—maybe it was the way he wore it, or maybe it was the obvious happiness it gave him—but for whatever reason, it looked _right._

“Uh…” JJ blinked and shook her head. “Sorry, what?”

“I apologized for keeping you here.” Genius shifted in his seat and scratched his arm a few times. “I know the only reason you stayed behind is because someone has to watch me.”

JJ set the file aside and shook her head. “Don’t apologize. If I wanted to go along that badly, I would have asked Hotch to keep someone else here.” She smiled. “If you ask me, I got lucky. I have the whole conference room to myself, my favorite coffee shop is two blocks away, and I get to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

Genius relaxed a little, looking down at his lap with a tiny smile. “You’re too nice.”

“No such thing.” JJ started spreading photos and papers out on the conference table. “Besides, I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

Genius picked at his fingers and hands for a few seconds, and then he began scratching his arm. “Can I…” He trailed off and didn’t attempt to finish his question.

“Can you…?” JJ pressed.

Genius looked up for a moment and then looked back down. “Um, never mind.” He scratched his arm a few times, shifting from foot to foot. “Wanna work on the case?”

JJ was curious, but Genius had already shared quite a bit with her the day before. She didn’t want to make him feel like he had to tell her everything, so she let it drop with a smile.

“Well, if we don’t want to get in trouble with Hotch, I think we definitely have to work on the case.”

Genius cracked a fleeting smile, looking over the information they had before tossing out a comment. “I don’t like this case.”

JJ frowned slightly and looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“They told us the personnel at Summerville Military Academy cut the boys down because they thought they might still be alive. Just looking at the pictures the medical examiner sent over, I can’t see how that’s possible. They have extensive bruising around the neck and eyes, and if the time of death that came with the files is accurate, rigor mortis would have definitely set in by the time they were found. I can understand a random passerby thinking there was something they could do, but military personnel would have at least some level of medical training.”

JJ nodded her head slowly, considering his argument. “So, we could be walking into a deliberately contaminated crime scene.” She paused, following his train of thought to the next conclusion. “Which would mean we can’t trust the testimony of the people in charge.”

“Which means all the evidence is corrupted to some extent.”

JJ blew her bangs out of her eyes and pulled her phone from her belt. “I’ll message Hotch and see what he wants us to do.”

Genius picked up one of the school transcripts. “You should also tell them not to assume these are suicides.” He read the whole sheet in thirty-seven seconds. “Josh Redding didn’t back out of a suicide pact.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he backed out or wasn’t part of a pact in the first place, he would have tried to save the other students. They would have already been cut down when the lieutenant arrived, but they weren’t. If Josh hadn’t been able to save them, he would have attempted to get help—something like smoke signals, given the training the students receive—and if that hadn’t worked, he would have stayed at the campsite to explain the situation as soon as someone arrived to pick them up. Instead, he vanished, and there are really only two reasons people avoid help.”

JJ folded her arms over her chest and nodded slowly. “Either they’re hiding something…”

“Or the help can’t be trusted.” Genius turned the photo in his hands toward JJ. “Josh Redding either killed those boys, or he knows who did and knows going back to the academy isn’t safe.”

JJ looked over the files on the table a few more times. “We should still look into the first boy’s suicide. If that was murder, it’s cause for a coverup. If it wasn’t, it could be what motivated our killer.”

Genius nodded in agreement. “Revenge and self-preservation _are_ powerful motivators.”

JJ opened her phone and pulled up a blank message, typing a few words before she stopped. “Let’s wait until we get the medical examiner’s report.”

Genius quirked a brow, confused. “Why?”

“Until we get that, this is just a hunch. If we wait until we have the report, the team should already be on the ground, profiling the staff and students. Not only will we have evidence to back our idea, but we’ll know we didn’t influence their first impressions.”

Genius nodded and smiled, immediately understanding. “That makes sense. You’re really smart, Agent Jereau.”

JJ was surprised by the compliment, but it made her smile nonetheless. “Thank you.”

Genius smiled, looked at the case files, and then looked back up, concern and fear suddenly dominating his features. “Was it you or someone you know?”

JJ blinked a few times, lost. “Um, sorry, what?”

Genius glanced at the files again. “Suicide. I noticed the way your body language changed as soon as Hotch said the victims hanged themselves, and you’ve been fingering your necklace on and off all day. You’re doing it now, actually.”

JJ looked down and saw he was right. She hadn’t even realized her hand had moved.

“It was, uh…” She shook her head, still reeling from the sudden change in topic. “It was my older sister. Rosalyn.”

Genius scratched his arm and then pulled out a chair, sitting down and putting his feet up on the seat with him. “Um… do you… I mean, because your sister… um… why did she… um, I mean…” He trailed off, biting down on his lip. “What do you think about… about people who hurt or kill themselves… for attention?”

JJ furrowed her brow, once again confused by the jump, even if it wasn’t as drastic.

“Well, I…” JJ leaned back against the table and crossed her arms, considering her answer carefully. “I don’t think they understand what someone who genuinely wants to die is going through, but I don’t think they should be ignored or ridiculed, either. I think you would have to be… _incredibly_ lonely and unwanted to believe people will only care about you if you hurt or kill yourself. It might not be the same kind of pain, but it’s still pain. It’s just different.” She turned to look at him. “Does that make sense?”

Genius nodded and curled up a little tighter, tracing idle patterns the side of his leg. “So… you wouldn’t be mad at someone who… I mean, if someone told you…”

JJ pushed off the table and grabbed a chair of her own. She sat directly across from Genius and leaned forward, trying to find his eyes. “Genius, have you been thinking about suicide?” she asked softly.

Genius shook his head right away, but he didn’t look at her. “No, not anymore. I… I did, though, a long time ago.” He started scratching his leg, and his voice was thick when he continued. “When I… when I was talking to Owen, I wanted him… to know I understood him, so I… I told him about… about how I tried, and…” He broke off into a sob but quickly reeled himself back in. “I guess I kinda… I hoped… I thought maybe…”

“Hey.” JJ grabbed his chair and pulled him as close as she could. “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

Genius didn’t say anything right away, one hand coming up to cover his mouth while the other clawed at his leg faster with every second. “I thought maybe Agent Hotchner or Agent Morgan would—would ask me about it.” He dropped his hand a little. “Or—or talk to me, maybe. I thought… I thought maybe Agent Hotchner wouldn’t be so angry at me if he knew…”

Genius shook his head, another quiet sob escaping him. “I know it’s not an excuse, and—and it wasn’t—that wasn’t why I did it, but I just—I just—” He took a shuddering breath and looked up, tears rolling down his cheeks. “Am I a bad person, Agent Jereau?”

JJ felt a stabbing pain in her chest, and she immediately grabbed Genius’ ankles, pulling them until he put his feet back on the floor. She reached out and cupped his face in her hands, causing his gaze to flicker away.

“Genius, look at me.”

He swallowed hard and did as he was told, shaking slightly.

JJ shook her head slowly, never taking her eyes off his, not even blinking. “You are _not_ a bad person, Genius.” She gently thumbed his cheek, shaking her head again. “It isn’t wrong to want to know that somebody cares.”

Genius let out a sob, his entire body sagging with relief. He took several deep, shuddering breaths. “That isn’t why I did it. I promise.”

“Hey, listen.” JJ only shook her head again. “I don’t care. I don’t care why you did it. It doesn’t matter. All that matters, all I care about, is the fact that you, at some point in your life, thought that trying to kill yourself was a good thing.”

Genius sniffed, tears staining his cheeks.

“You promise me something, okay?”

Genius nodded, sniffing again.

“If you ever start to have those thoughts or feelings again, promise you’ll come to me. No matter what kind of feelings they are. If you ever feel trapped or exhausted or replaceable—if you feel like no one cares and you need attention—come to me. We will figure something out.”

Genius nodded a few times and wiped his cheeks. “I can do that.”

JJ looked him dead in the eye. “Promise me.”

Genius blinked away his tears. “I promise.”

JJ slowly let go of his face, dropping her hands into her lap.

_He went from fine to guilt-ridden breakdown. So, what’s next?_

“Hey.” JJ nudged his knee. “Let’s start working on motives. We were really on a roll there. Well, you were, but I helped.”

Genius sniffed and smiled, blinking rapidly. “We _were_ on a roll.” He grinned a bit. “It’s, uh, it’s actually funny you should bring up motive, because I was just thinking about Baily’s suicide again. According to his file, he was only thirteen, making him one of the youngest students at Summerville. That would also make him one of the smallest and most vulnerable. I think we should look into bullying as a possible cause for the suicide.”

JJ blinked a few times. _Apparently, going right back to normal is what’s next._

“Does that sound bad coming from me? I mean, because of the Owen thing?”

JJ thought about it for a second and then shook her head. “No, Baily definitely would have been a prime target for bullying, and the five boys found in the words were all upperclassmen. They were bigger, stronger, older… and the school motto is, ‘To Live is To Conquer,’ so I doubt they teach classes on empathy and emotional support.”

Genius nodded his head a few times. “We should start looking into Baily’s family.”

JJ looked up at him, shaking her head with awe. “You’re good, Genius. I mean, you already know that, but you’re _really_ good. You’re not even there, and you’re profiling all these traits just from paper.”

Genius gave her a sheepish smile. “Don’t forget, Agent Jereau—I solved 1,022 cases from inside ICAP.” He looked a little bitter for a moment, lips pouting slightly. “My file says I consulted, but I _solved_ them. I figured it out, alone, with no one helping me.”

“They shouldn’t have done that, Genius.” JJ tensed up slightly, not liking the sudden change in his countenance. “You deserve to be recognized for your hard work.”

“I know I do.” Genius started to scratch at his arm, growing angrier by the second, beginning to pace in the conference room. “It’s just—it’s just ridiculous! How can anybody be so, so, so _stupid_ to actually believe someone with my level of intelligence only _consulted_ on every single case they were handed? If a freeman did it, it would be totally different, but—” He pressed his palms to his eyes and uttered a frustrated shout. “It’s just not—it’s just not fair!”

JJ barely had time to react before Genius swiped the evidence off the table, sending the box, folders, and papers flying. _Stay calm._ She slowly approached and didn’t let herself jump when Genius slammed his hands down on the tabletop. _Don’t scare him._ She stopped about three feet away and spoke softly, trying to get his attention without aggravating him further.

“Genius… I want to help, but in order to do that, I need to know what is making you so angry.”

Genius mumbled something to the table, fingers clawing at the wood.

“I can’t hear y—”

“I said I don’t know!” Genius slammed his hands on the table again, but he uttered a sound that was more upset than angry. “I don’t _know,_ Agent Jereau.” He got louder, anger returning, and he began to pace again. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! I don’t know, and I hate it! This is—this is such a stupid thing to get _so_ mad over, and normally—normally it doesn’t even bother me, but sometimes, Agent Jereau—sometimes I just get so _angry,_ and I don’t know why, but I can’t make it stop. I try to talk myself down, I try to take deep breaths, and it just makes everything worse! Sometimes I want to throw or break something, sometimes I want to cram as many profanities and slurs into one sentence as humanly possible, sometimes I start crying, sometimes it leads to a panic attack, and sometimes it just—sometimes it just goes away and leaves me feeling like an idiot for losing control over a, a, a _lollipop._ This happened over a _lollipop,_ Agent Jereau, while I was still at ICAP, and I don’t understand! I don’t know why, _why_ my brain is doing this to me.”

Genius finally stopped pacing, throwing his back against the wall and dropping unceremoniously to the floor. He stared blankly ahead, the passion draining from his eyes. “And sometimes…” his voice cracked, “…sometimes when it goes away, I feel better, but most of the time… I just get so _tired,_ Agent Jereau. I—do you have any idea how…” he panted, chest heaving “…how exhausting it is to be _that_ angry?”

JJ slowly approached him, stepping over the scattered papers carefully. She joined Genius on the floor, leaning back against the wall with a sigh.

Genius shook his head, eyes glassy with tears he wouldn’t—or perhaps couldn’t—shed. “I just… I don’t understand, Agent Jereau. Why is my brain this way? Why—why am _I_ this way?”

JJ shook her head slowly and moved a little closer, cautiously putting an arm around him. “I don’t know, Genius… I…” She shook her head again. “We’re gonna figure this out. Hotch made an appointment with a psychiatrist for you, and it’s coming up soon.”

Genius physically recoiled at the information, a desperate whine rising in his throat as tearful eyes implored her. “No, please! _Please_ don’t put me on more medication. Please—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” JJ shook her head immediately. “No, Genius, no. We want to do the opposite, okay? We want you to be evaluated so maybe we can take you off some of these meds you’re on, change some things around, and just—we just want to find something that works for you.”

Genius stared at her, fear still evident in his honey-brown eyes, but he didn’t shy away from her any more. “R-really?” He sniffed and dragged his arm across his eyes. “You mean it?”

JJ nodded her head, smiling warmly. “Yes, I mean it. We’re gonna get to the bottom of this, okay? Depression, anxiety, mood disorders, personality disorders… whatever it is, we’re going to figure it out and find a way to treat it. We’re gonna make it better.”

Genius pulled his knees up to his chest and looked at her with so much hope in his eyes it physically hurt her to see it. “You mean… better better? I might not get so angry anymore? Things won’t be so… out of control, and maybe my brain will just… just be quiet every now and then? We’ll treat it all? Fatigue, headaches, chronic pain, insomnia, hypersomnia—everything?”

JJ felt her own eyes growing damp, but she smiled and nodded. “Everything. It might take a long time to work it all out, to get all the old drugs out of your system and… well, I don’t know what all we’ll have to do. But we’ll keep trying and changing and learning… and we’ll make it better better.”

Genius swallowed hard and smiled widely. “Better better.”

JJ nodded yet again and returned his smile. “Better better.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I had a thought.”

Hotch stopped halfway to his office, turning to look at JJ with a combination of concern and urgency in his eyes. “Can it wait? I want to check on Genius.”

JJ opened her mouth, stopped, and then spoke. “I don’t know. It’s about Genius, but it’s going to sound crazy …” She shook her head. “Doesn’t our case load seem heavier than usual?”

Hotch pressed his lips together and considered the question. She said it was about Genius, so considered the timeline since Genius had arrived, which was a mere nine days. It wasn’t all that unbelievable to have two cases in little over a week, but when he counted the case Genius was initially called in for…

“Do we have another one?” He figured something had triggered her thoughts, so he went with the most likely scenario.

JJ nodded. “Yeah. I called around, trying to find someone to take it for us, but no luck so far. Still waiting for some callbacks…” She chewed on her lip, folding her arms over her stomach. “It just seems like too many coincidences. We hire Genius, and we get a case—a spree killing we can’t put off—where Genius identifies with the unsub. We’re barely home a day, and we get another case—one we’re supposed to keep in-house, so again, it can’t wait—that gets Genius’ mind on suicide. I just… ICAP would know his triggers, they’re not cooperating with us at all, and it almost seems like… like Genius could be doing really well, and it’s just bad luck that he’s spiraling.”

Hotch considered the idea for a moment, but he ultimately found himself sidetracked by the mention of suicide. “Is Genius thinking about suicide?”

JJ shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was… he talked about his suicide attempts. He was hurt that you and Morgan didn’t say anything to him about it after the Savage case.”

Hotch let out a frustrated sigh, but he blamed himself for the bad call. “We had just fought, and then we talked about ICAP, and he was so upset and emotionally drained. I thought it would overwhelm him if I kept pressing; Morgan did, too.”

“Hey.” JJ shook her head, as empathetic as ever, and spoke softly. “If he hadn’t been upset about it, he wouldn’t have opened up to me, and we had a really good talk yesterday.” She paused. “We had a couple of really good talks.”

“I can talk to him about it. I’ll leave it open-ended so he doesn’t feel like he has to talk if he doesn’t want to.” Hotch didn’t address any of his inner turmoil over the mistake, choosing instead to move forward. “As for your theory, I’m sure you see the major flaw.”

“That ICAP isn’t going around unleashing serial killers?” JJ let out a sardonic sort of chuckle, shaking her head. “Yeah, I know. I told you it was out there. Still…” she shook her head slowly, “…they want to keep him away from us so badly without a reason. So, when another relatively urgent case cross my desk this morning, I thought maybe ICAP is burning Genius out on purpose. If he’s deemed ‘defective,’ he’ll be sent back.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I told you, I had a thought. That’s all it was.”

Hotch barely heard the closing, his brain taking her theory down a different path and finding a separate motive. “They could benefit from this another way. If Genius is doing poorly in _our_ care, they could launch an investigation into this team on allegations of abuse.”

“Could you talk to Strauss? Find out if anyone from ICAP has been asking about us?”

Hotch shook his head, reminding himself to join Morgan in the section chief’s office later. “Strauss is going to be… out of commission for a little while.”

“So, someone new will be coming in.” JJ pressed her lips together, nodding her head sarcastically. “Convenient.”

Hotch lowered his voice slightly and leaned a little closer. “Your theory is flimsy at best, but if you’re right, the evidence is out there. You can’t let it affect your work, but if you keep… _looking_ into this idea, I won’t stop you. Just bring everything you find to me so we can exchange evidence.”

JJ looked at him oddly, confused by his behavior, and then understanding smoothed away the crease in her brow. “I can do that.”

“I know you can.” Hotch gave her a brief smirk. “I’m going to check on Genius. When are we going over the new case?”

“First thing tomorrow morning, so you have half a day to file your reports.”

Hotch let out a brief sigh but said nothing, walking toward his office with a scowl on his face. _It’s far-fetched, but ICAP has certainly been difficult._ His frown deepened. _Nobody has been transferred into this unit since Genius got here. I guess it’s possible ICAP is somehow directing specific cases to JJ’s desk, but it’s unlikely. They might know Genius, but if they sent any case they thought would affect Genius negatively, they would be banking their success on the reaction of everyone on the team being negative as well. Otherwise, the cases could wind up being cathartic and help Genius learn to trust us._

Though, in a way, that was what happened. If there was something to the conspiracy theory, it was possible ICAP was about to realize their tactic wasn’t working. It was possible they would change things up, unexpectedly, and be more successful than before.

Hotch stepped into his office and shook the thoughts away. If JJ found anything, she would bring it to him. He had only one priority at the moment.

“Genius.” Hotch pushed the chair from behind his desk over to the couch and sat down, squeezing Genius’ shoulder. “Hey, you awake?”

“Mm-hmm.” Genius’ eyes didn’t open. “Sorry, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch didn’t remove his hand, and he spoke with a soothing voice. “What are you sorry for?”

Genius heaved a sigh and shrugged, whispering his reply. “This.”

_He normally wears his heart on his sleeve, but could this all be from his sudden fit of anger? He’s so exhausted he can barely speak. It has to be a build-up of depression, but did it start before he got here or only since then?_

Hotch gave the arm another squeeze and started to rub gently, knowing how much Genius craved physical touch. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Genius. There isn’t anything you need to apologize for, okay?”

Genius only heaved another sigh, eyes still closed. “Ritalin.”

Hotch frowned. “What about it?”

“Gimme extra.” Genius finally opened his eyes, but his stare was vacant and glazed over. “Read the directions… you’ll see.” He took a deep breath and let it out, struggling with his tongue for a moment. “Doctors use it for depression…”

Hotch frowned slightly but got up and went over to his desk. He pulled the key from his pocket and unlocked the drawer with Genius’ medication, pulling out the requested bottle and reading the label.

“I thought Ritalin calmed you down.”

Genius gave a haphazard headshake. “Stimulant.”

Hotch read the label again. It said it was to be taken as needed for concentration-oriented tasks. Genius was definitely in a thick mental fog, but without a concentration-oriented task to justify using the drug, wouldn’t it just be something to jack him up?

Genius may have wanted it, but Hotch wasn’t so sure it was a good idea. Genius couldn’t overdose on one pill, so that wasn’t a concern, but he sounded… honestly, he sounded like an addict, desperate for a fix.

_“Gimme extra.”_

“Genius, I can’t.” Hotch sighed and put the bottle back, closing and locking the drawer.

Genius was too weak to whine, but he still made an effort. “Just… _Google_ it.”

“I believe you, Genius. I believe Ritalin is used for depression.” Hotch returned to the chair by the couch, speaking softly, trying to be as gentle with his refusal as he could. “That isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“What then?” Genius exhaled sharply, almost like a sob without sound or tears.

“I just… I want to be very careful about what you put in your body. Sometimes… we want things that… make us feel better for a little while but hurt us in the long term. Like…” He struggled for a moment. “Like a sugar high, followed by a sugar crash.”

“It’s not like that,” Genius whispered, his voice low and hoarse. “Please, Agent Hotchner, _please_ … just need one.”

Hotch stared down at Genius, taking in his messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, and the crinkled clothing he had been wearing since the previous morning.

_It’s just one pill. What harm can it do?_

_It’s not about the physical effects._

_You don’t automatically get addicted to controlled substances._

_I don’t want to reinforce the idea that the only way to feel better is pills._

_There’s nothing wrong with taking medication for depression._

_But there is something wrong with popping pills every time it gets bad._

_It’s only one pill._

_It isn’t, though. It’s short-term. It’ll stay in his system, what, six hours? I’ll be faced with the same problem then, and he’ll probably be worse than he is now._

_He’s desperate. He just wants to feel better. He can’t even talk, can’t lift his head._

_So, what, I give him uppers? For all I know, an excess of stimulants could be the reason he has panic attacks. I give him energy so he can panic and cry and struggle to breathe?_

_It’s better than nothing._

_Is it, though?_

_He knows what he’s talking about._

_It’s not like he wants Aleve, it’s Ritalin._

_He’s suffering!_

_I know that!_

“Agent Hotchner…?”

Hotch looked at Genius for a few more seconds, and then he shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Genius. I promise, I will go home tonight and do some research; see how it interacts with comorbid depression and anxiety, check the side effects of increasing the dose…” …among other things.

Genius didn’t react much, though he visibly deflated at the rejection. He looked for half a second like he might cry, but he couldn’t maintain an expression of any sort, his flat affect quickly returning.

“Genius…” Hotch sighed, softly stroking Genius’ knotted hair. “You want to try an energy drink?”

Genius gave the slightest shake of the head. “Not enough.”

“It’s something,” Hotch tried. “Mixed with the Ritalin already in you, it might be enough.”

Genius only shrugged, the life seeming to drain out of him. It was like every last drop of energy had been used to complete the conversation. Genius had nothing left. He emulated a ragdoll, completely limp and passed out on the sofa.

 _But he isn’t passed out. He’s awake, he’s just…_ Hotch remained silent, sitting by the couch and gently running his hand through Genius’ hair on a loop. _I hope he forgives me. I hope I’m not wrong._ He hung his head slightly, staring at his shoes. _Three and a half more days, and then maybe we can get some answers._

Hotch was counting down the hours.

* * *

Morgan leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head, yawning loudly. He picked up his coffee cup, finding it empty and cold. Clearly, it had been entirely too long since he refilled.

_If they don’t find something soon, I’m turning in for the night._

Morgan poured coffee into his mug and microwaved it for thirty seconds, drumming his fingers on the counter as he waited. It was silent in the bullpen, everyone else having gone home, but there was a heaviness to it that normally wasn’t there.

_I should check on Genius._

Morgan grabbed his coffee and made his way across the bullpen, reaching up with his free hand to rub some of the tension from his neck. He knocked on the door to Genius’ room, letting himself in without waiting for a response.

“Hey, kid,” he whispered. “You awake?”

Genius rolled over so he could see Morgan, but that was his only answer.

“You still feeling pretty bad?” Morgan realized the stupidity of the question as soon as it left his tongue. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Ritalin.”

Morgan sighed softly and shook his head. “Sorry, Pretty Boy, but you’re getting the same answer today that you got yesterday.”

Genius didn’t say anything to that, a bitter snort jerking his shoulders before he sank back into the blankets.

Morgan’s middle man had brought the bed the day before, which was fortunate, because Genius informed everyone that, unless someone carried him, he wasn’t going to make it to Rossi’s house. So, Rossi got spare sheets and blankets from his house for temporary use, and they put the bed in the middle of the half-painted bedroom to be. Genius didn’t care.

Genius didn’t care about anything anymore.

Emily volunteered to sleep on the couch in Hotch’s office, insisting the others needed to get a good night’s sleep—especially Hotch and JJ. So, after spending all day on the couch, Genius got up to use the bathroom and moved to the bed. He was still laying there when Emily woke up, only minimal changes to his position.

“Is there anything other than the Ritalin?” Morgan sipped his coffee again, and the action brought a thought to mind. “You want some caffeine? It’s not Ritalin, but…”

Genius considered the option for a few seconds, and then he shook his head. “Agent Hotchner already… It has to be stronger.” His lips twisted up, and from what Morgan could see in the dim light, Genius looked like he was going to cry.

“Hey,” Morgan said softly, walking over to the bed and crouching down so they were eye to eye. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

“I can’t get up, Agent Morgan.” Genius shook his head slightly, tears thick in his voice but absent from his eyes. “I want to get up. I want to do things. I hate this, but… but I just _can’t_ get up, and I…”

Morgan listened to make sure Genius was done talking, and then he reached up to put a hand on Genius’ shoulder. “It’s g—”

“Don’t.” Genius flinched away, a guilty expression tainting his features shortly thereafter. “Sorry. I… I don’t normally mind, but… but sometimes my body can’t handle it…”

Morgan nodded understandingly and lowered his hand. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

Genius didn’t look guilty anymore, but that didn’t make Morgan feel better; Genius didn’t have the ability to maintain any facial expression for more than a second or two.

“I was going to say,” Morgan started, drawing the conversation back toward Genius’ emotional state, “that it’s going to get better. I know you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel right now, but it’s there. I promise you, Pretty Boy, it is _there_ , and you’re gonna make it.”

Genius only sighed, eyes partially closed, body unmoving. “How?”

“We’re gonna get someone in here who can help you figure out what your brain is doing. We’re gonna get you off some of those meds, maybe put you on some new ones, and we’ll keep learning and trying new things until we find something that works.” Morgan reached out to pat Genius on the shoulder but stopped himself. “It might take a while, but everything will be okay in the end.”

Genius blinked sluggishly, sniffed, and managed brief eye contact. “Can you… tell me that again?”

Morgan nodded, speaking with every ounce of sincerity he had in him. “Pretty Boy, you gotta listen to me. It’s gonna be okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Genius screwed his eyes shut, emotion flickering across his face before disappearing.

“No matter what, it’s going to be okay. You hear me, Pretty Boy?”

Genius nodded weakly, eyes still closed.

“Come on, man, I wanna hear you say it.” Morgan leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “C’mon, Pretty Boy, say it’s going to be okay.”

Genius nodded again, but he didn’t say anything.

“Come on, Pretty Boy, come on.” Morgan put his hands on the edge of the mattress, getting as close as he could without actually touching Genius. “Come on, say it for me. Tell me everything is gonna be okay.”

Genius took a deep breath. “It is.”

“No, no, I want you to say it.”

“Everything… is gonna be okay.”

“Good, say it again.”

“Everything is gonna be okay.”

“Everything is gonna be okay, man.”

“Everything is gonna be okay.”

“You got it, Pretty Boy.” Morgan smiled on the off-chance Genius opened his eyes.

Genius lay very still for a moment, he took another deep breath, and his voice was shakier when he spoke again. “I… I don’t want to be here anymore, Agent Morgan. Could I… could I go home with you? Instead of you staying here?”

“Yeah, Pretty Boy, you can come home with me.” Morgan gestured vaguely to the conference room. “I have a few more things to look into, a couple calls to make to the TAD, and then we can go.”

Genius gave a slight nod. “I… I’ll just be here.”

Morgan looked at Genius with sympathy in his eyes, and then he left the room to finish up work, frustrated by his lack of ability to _do_ something.

Morgan was a fixer. He always had been, he probably always would be. He took care of the people he cared about, and the best way to take care of someone was to fix their problems. Fix problem, problem gone, person happy and healthy and safe.

It was all elementary to him.

Unfortunately, too many problems in the world were unfixable; or they could be fixed, but Morgan didn’t have the tools or know-how to do it. It was an infuriating predicament to be trapped in, and it seemed Genius liked to put Morgan in it.

Not that it was Genius’ fault. Morgan would never blame Genius.

“Hey, Pretty Boy. Ready to go?”

Genius inhaled deeply and sat up. He got his legs over the edge of the bed and got to his feet, his movements slow and disjointed.

“You alright? You need help?”

Genius kicked his feet into his shoes, only partially successful. “M’fine.”

Morgan doubted the truthfulness of the statement, but he let it slide, choosing instead to back out of the doorway. He didn’t know whether or not Genius was still in a no-touching phase, and the kid looked so miserable, Morgan didn’t want to risk anything.

“…lean on you?” Genius almost made it to the elevator before he was forced to cave, the beginning of his sentence slurred beyond recognition.

“Sure.” Morgan figured he couldn’t support Genius without touching him, so he put his arm around Genius’ shoulders and put Genius’ arm around himself. “Is that alright?”

Genius gave a tired nod, feet scuffing with every step he took, shoes never fully leaving the ground. “Can you… tell me again?”

Morgan hit the appropriate button to summon the elevator, not missing the way Genius stared blankly at it. He looked like he was zoning out, but Morgan knew he wasn’t.

“Everything is going to be okay, Pretty Boy. I know it, Hotch knows it, Rossi, JJ, Emily—we all know it. It’s a fact.”

Genius let Morgan lead him into the elevator, head hanging low. “It’s so hard…”

“What is?” Morgan got them both out of the elevator and started toward the parking garage.

“Everything.” Genius walked at a painfully slow pace, but Morgan didn’t rush him. “Walking, talking, thinking… smiling, frowning… standing, moving…”

“I know, kid.”

Genius shook his head. “No, you don’t.” Despite the words, he didn’t sound angry. “No one understands until they’ve been there, and… and there aren’t enough words in any language to explain this feeling.”

Morgan opened the passenger side door, and Genius half tumbled, half collapsed into the seat. “If you feel up to it, you can keep talking, kid. It might help.”

Genius gave a weary nod and waited until Morgan closed his door, grabbing at his seatbelt and letting his head rest against the glass.

Morgan walked around the vehicle and got in, shoving his keys into the ignition and wasting no time in pulling out. He wanted to get Genius into a bed as soon as possible.

_That sounded weird…_

Morgan wanted to get Genius somewhere comfortable and safe so he could get the rest he desperately needed.

“I don’t remember what I was saying…”

“You were talking about how you feel right now,” Morgan answered, giving Genius his full attention despite having to keep his eyes on the road. “You said you can’t explain it. But you could try. I’ll listen.”

Genius stared blankly at the glove box handle. “It’s… it’s like your brain slows down. Someone asks a question, and you answer it in your head, but it takes so long for it to get to your mouth. Everything is moving so fast, and you want to keep up, but you can’t.” He took a deep breath and shook his head, heaving a sigh. “Your brain keeps trying to send signals to your body, but your body just… doesn’t get them.”

Morgan nodded slowly, glancing over from time to time so Genius knew he was still listening.

“I can’t make my feet leave the ground. I can’t make my head turn when I want to look at someone. I can’t make my tongue form words when I have something to say.” Genius stopped to take a few breaths, the exertion of conversation steadily overwhelming him. “I tell my eyes to look at something, to focus, and they never get the message.” He sniffed and wiped his nose. “And I know how bad the next part is gonna be, and I…”

Morgan frowned. “Next part?”

“I know if I stay here too long… if I don’t get better… my brain will stop trying. It won’t try to make me look or think or talk. It’ll just… sleep. You think I’m spending a lot of time sleeping now, just you wait. You haven’t seen anything.” Genius let out a bitter sort of a laugh, more air than noise, and then he fell silent.

Morgan didn’t know what he was supposed to say. Genius had no problem asking Morgan to affirm him, and he didn’t do that. He just stopped, and Morgan felt like he was supposed to do something, but he had no idea what.

“Pretty Boy…”

“Why don’t you call me Genius anymore?”

Morgan blinked. “Uh, well, Genius isn’t really a name, but you don’t like us calling you by your real name, so…” He shrugged. “Pretty Boy.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Does it bother you?”

Genius shook his head, and for the first time in a long time, there was a faint smile on his lips. “No. I like it.”

Morgan smiled back, nudging Genius on the arm. “Hey, look at that. You’re already doing better.”

But as he said the words, Morgan felt something turn in his stomach. Nothing too strong or unnerving, just a sense that something was off. Genius was talking a little too much, a little too coherently, and he was wearing a few too many facial expressions; despite being collapsed against the window, his eyes were starting to follow movement beyond the glass. He had gone from hardly speaking at all to engaging in lengthy conversation.

_He’s probably just feeling a bit better now that he’s out of the office._

But Morgan didn’t like that explanation, and he couldn’t pretend he didn’t notice when Genius lifted his hand to his mouth and chewed on his nails.

_It doesn’t matter. He’s feeling better. That’s all that matters._

His gut twisted again.

* * *

Morgan felt around in the dark for his phone, using it to check the time and letting out a sigh when he realized he had only been asleep for two hours. _It’s gonna be one of those nights, isn’t it?_

Sighing, he kicked off the sheets and got up, shuffling down the hall toward the kitchen and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. _Shouldn’t have had that last cup of coffee._ It had seemed so necessary when there was still work to do, but in retrospect, he would have been better off muscling through.

Morgan froze, all thoughts of sleep vanishing when he saw Genius sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.

“Hey.” Morgan rushed over to the sofa, sitting down and leaning forward to get a look at Genius’ face. “Hey, hey, hey. What’s the matter?”

Genius inhaled and exhaled slowly, inhaling once more before he replied. “I’m stopping a panic attack.” He exhaled. “I can stop them myself…” inhale, “…when they don’t have a trigger.” Exhale. “I’ll be alright.”

Morgan nodded his head slowly, happy to see nothing had spiraled out of control but still knowing he couldn’t leave Genius on his own.

“I was just about to make myself some warm milk. You want some, too?”

Genius looked up, blinked, and offered a slight nod. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Morgan gave him a kind smile and got to his feet. “You can sleep in my bed tonight. It’s big enough for the both of us. I’ll be back in, like, five minutes, alright?”

Genius took another deep breath and nodded, slowly getting to his feet. He tested the waters a bit, and when he saw his legs could support him, he ambled down the short hall to Morgan’s bedroom.

 _He can walk on his own, he’s coherent, he’s talking, and he’s on the verge of a panic attack._ Morgan sighed, continuing to the kitchen. _He took something._

Probably Ritalin, but that was just a guess.

 _He must have taken it while we were still at the office, maybe… five minutes after I talked to him. We were in the car when it started to kick in, but I went to bed before it could really take effect._ Morgan prepared the drinks as he thought, his hands going through the motions automatically. _It worked, but it worked too well. He’s able to function, but he’s anxious._

It didn’t seem like that bad of a trade on the surface, but Morgan knew it could spiral out of control very quickly. Even if it didn’t, once the Ritalin wore off, Genius’ body would be even more exhausted than it had been before.

_Between last night and today, he got eighteen hours of sleep, and he’s still exhausted. I’m sure taking something that forces his body to stay awake and in motion doesn’t help with that._

Morgan let out sigh and rubbed his forehead.

_Now what?_

Picking up the drinks, Morgan returned to his bedroom, trying to figure out how to proceed. He handed Genius his drink and then settled into bed, taking a sip of his own and staring at the wall.

 _Picking a fight won’t help._ But he couldn’t ignore it. _He can just deny it, and I can’t prove a thing._ But he couldn’t ignore it. _Maybe the trade-off really isn’t that bad._ But he couldn’t ignore it. _If he thinks he can get away with it, he might sloppier next time._

No. No, no, no.

Morgan would _not_ think of Genius like an unsub. He refused.

Morgan finished his milk and set the empty glass on the nightstand, settling down in the sheets with a contented sigh. He listened to Genius’ somewhat labored breathing, watched his shaking hands grip the milk glass, and he finally decided what to say.

“Kid, you made a stupid mistake tonight.”

Genius tensed up, holding his breath.

“But everything is still gonna be okay.”

Genius remained still and silent, but he started to breathe again, slowly, cautiously.

Morgan left it at that and rolled onto his side, adjusting his pillow and closing his eyes.

“Goodnight, Pretty Boy.”

“Goodnight, Agent Morgan.” Pause. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Pretty Boy.” 

* * *

“Tomorrow’s the big day.” JJ crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorway to Hotch’s office. “You have a meeting, right?”

Hotch nodded, not looking up from his paperwork. “Yes, but I’ll be back in time to meet with Dr. Meadowlark and the team.”

JJ nodded and turned to look at Rossi, nodding her head in his direction. “You’ll be here, right?”

Rossi looked up, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. Genius and the doc will be alone in this office, but I’ll be right outside.” He smirked. “I have a perfect vantage point from the coffee machine.”

JJ smiled briefly and then stepped inside, shutting the door behind her just to be safe. “Hotch, there are some records that are going to be sent over sometime this week, and I’d like you to go over them with me. I just have a couple questions.”

Hotch looked up at that, gesturing across the room with his pen. “It’s alright, Rossi knows. He was helping me with the redacted files.”

“Got it.” JJ gave a thumbs up. “I got in touch with an old friend in the TAD, and she said she could get me any ICAP files that were in the general information databases without raising any flags. I don’t know if it will be helpful, but I thought there might be something hiding in plain sight. Maybe we can figure something out based on turnover rates or funding or… I don’t know. It’s all I have for now.”

Rossi snorted. “It’s more than we have.”

Hotch tapped his pen on the edge of his desk, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Seconds passed in silence, and then JJ pressed.

“You gonna share?”

Hotch smiled lightly and shook his head. “I was just thinking about how long it would take for your friend at the TAD to get us files, and then I thought about how nice it would be if we had our own technical analyst.”

Rossi threw his hands up. “We got a media liaison, a private jet, and a genius; are you ever satisfied?”

JJ smiled at the banter. “Well, you know he intends to take over the world, right?”

“Hey, now.” Hotch smiled to himself and started working on his report again. “It was just a thought. I suppose I can survive without another genius to do all my technical bidding.” He paused and then his smile widened a bit. “I’m still set on the world domination thing, though, so be prepared to deal with that.”

JJ rolled her eyes and turned to leave, grabbing the handle with an exaggerated sigh. “Hotch’s Home for Wayward Geniuses.” She closed the door with a laugh and shook her head, walking back toward her office.

 _I can’t even imagine trying to handle two geniuses._ She ran a hand through her hair. _But it would be nice to have quicker access to electronic… well, everything._

* * *

“I don’t really know where to begin, but I’m glad you called me. With the cocktail of medications your genius is on, it’s no wonder he can’t function in the field. I don’t know how he’s functioning at all, to be perfectly honest.”

Rossi pursed his lips. “Yeah, well… he kinda isn’t functioning. So, what do we do?”

“It seems to me ICAP has been medicating the effects of the medicine they put him on. I don’t know… _why_ they would do that, but it’s been known to happen. Usually not to this extent, but…” Dr. Meadowlark appeared disgusted for a moment, but then he shook it off. “Well, that is neither here nor there.”

Hotch, who was seated next to Meadowlark, shook his head and leaned on the table slightly. “What do you mean they were medicating the medicine?”

“Well… let me see, here.” Meadowlark pulled his glasses from his breast pocket and slipped them on, looking over his notes. “Hmm.”

Dr. David Meadowlark. He seemed like a nice gentleman—somewhere in his late fifties, white, with blue-grey eyes and a receding hairline—and Rossi had no qualms about letting him talk to Genius. From the get-go, Meadowlark had been frank but kind, and his patience when dealing with Genius was exemplary. Rossi liked him, which was good. Because if Rossi didn’t like someone, there was no way they would be changing anywhere near Genius.

“Here,” Dr. Meadowlark adjusted his glasses. “He had a few major depressive episodes when he was a teenager, and they put him on Seroquel at sixteen.”

“Seroquel is a mood stabilizer, right?” Emily tapped the arm of her chair, and it looked like she was processing a lot more than she let on.

“It is, but when they started it, they were using it as an augmenter. There are a lot of medications that can aid antidepressants in low doses, despite the fact that their therapeutic dose would have a completely different purpose.” Meadowlark rested his elbows on top of the file and laced his fingers together. “Based on the amount of time your genius spent on the lower dose, I would say it was meant to be an augmenter. It didn’t work for your genius, and it caused some nasty side effects; however, instead of taking him off the medication or trying something else, they diagnosed the negative reaction as the appearance of mood swings and increased the dose.”

Morgan pointed to the table in front of him. “They did this multiple times? With multiple medications?”

Meadowlark held a hand up and tilted it from side to side. “Well, they took very poor notes, so it’s _possible_ there’s another explanation, but this is the one that makes the most sense.”

Rossi and Hotch exchanged a brief glance, knowing the notes had probably been fine prior to redaction.

“Regardless of how it happened, your genius is overmedicated and overdiagnosed. In and of itself, being overdiagnosed isn’t all that uncommon, but it’s very odd for a genius.”

JJ frowned slightly. “Can you explain that?”

“If insurance is going to cover or help pay for the treatment of anything, there has to be a diagnosis. But geniuses don’t have insurance. Everything about their treatment is covered by government funding, so there’s no need to grasp at straws for a diagnosis. If there isn’t one, there simply isn’t one, and it should stop there.” Meadowlark opened a folder and began leafing through the pages inside. “Here we have a diagnosis of Restless Leg Syndrome, and we have another diagnosis of Tourette’s Disorder. I have diagnosed him with Major Depressive Disorder, which we can reevaluate once he’s on a reasonable amount of medication. One of the nine criteria for depression is psychomotor retardation or agitation almost every day.”

“Tapping, scratching, drumming, leg shaking…” Morgan trailed off, rubbing his forehead.

“Exactly, and there are several medications that cause or increase psychomotor agitation.” Meadowlark spread his hands slightly, a light shrug pulling on his shoulders. “We also have to consider he may have no mental disorders at all. In almost every category of mental illness, there is a separate diagnosis for induction by substance or medication. Depression, psychosis, bi-polar disorder, anxiety… the list goes on.”

Meadowlark shook his head then, letting out a half-bitter, half-amused laugh. “They diagnosed him with Male Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder when there is a much simpler explanation.”

Rossi couldn’t help but snort a little. “Kid spent all of puberty celibate; he’s probably still a virgin, for crying out loud. I’d wanna get laid, too.”

Meadowlark chuckled softly but nodded his head. “That is, by far, one of the most ridiculous things they diagnosed him with, but you understand what I’m saying. They are doing anything they can to increase the number of diagnoses codes on his chart. Right now, I can’t tell if he’s overdiagnosed because he’s overmedicated, or if he’s overmedicated because he’s overdiagnosed. But the fact is, he is currently both.”

 Hotch nodded a few times, focusing entirely on Dr. Meadowlark. “So, what is the plan? How do we move forward from here?”

“Well, the first thing is to get all of you an updated list on what he can and can’t have or be doing. You said he was on Ritalin, yes?”

Hotch offered a slight nod, somewhat tense.

“I have used the same thing for many of my patients with depression. It helps them get through a shift at work, stay awake while driving, or make it to an engagement they can’t miss, like a wedding or funeral. However, it isn’t supposed to be a staple, and it shouldn’t be mixed with other stimulants.” Dr. Meadowlark glanced at Morgan then, seemingly changing the topic. “You said he likes rap?”

Morgan nodded. “Uh, yeah. He loves it.”

JJ let out an almost incredulous laugh, a striking fondness in her blue eyes. “He’s unstoppable. It’s almost scary.”

Meadowlark smiled and nodded his head. “It lets him talk fast. He memorizes the lyrics and speeds through them because that’s how they’re _meant_ to be sung, and it’s comforting for him. Think of it as the verbal equivalent of drumming your fingers or shaking your leg. He also talks fast in general, and I am sure you all noticed he can’t stop jittering. These are natural symptoms of anxiety, and any stimulant would make it worse. So, we take someone who has an anxiety disorder, put them on a powerful stimulant, and then do nothing to monitor the intake of caffeine, sugar, over-the-counter medications…” Meadowlark trailed off.

“He’s constantly high.” Hotch finished the sentence for him.

Morgan sighed and rubbed his face. “If I had known that, I wouldn’t have introduced him to quality coffee.”

Meadowlark only shook his head, his expression unjudging. “It isn’t your fault. It’s not your responsibility to know how all of these drugs interact with each other. Your genius should have come from ICAP with a list of warnings and any dietary limitations necessary. That’s why our first step is to get us all on the same page.” Meadowlark took his glasses off and leaned back in his chair. “The Ritalin he’s on doesn’t stay in his system, so there’s no need to ease him off of it. Because of that, it’ll be the first thing to get removed from his daily medications. If he needs it to stay awake, that’s fine, but if he chooses to take it, he can’t have any caffeine and sugar should be limited. On the other hand, if he doesn’t need it to stay awake, he can drink coffee, take Excedrin for headaches, and so on and so forth. If, for some reason, you absolutely must have the two mix, it won’t hurt him, but it will leave him very, very agitated.”

Rossi stroked his goatee, staring blankly at the center of the table for a second, not entirely sure where his thoughts wanted to take him. “Genius would have access to medical textbooks, wouldn’t he?”

Meadowlark wet his lips and thought for a moment, eyes wandering upward. “I can’t be completely sure, but I don’t think it would have been censored by the program. If there were drugs that could be used to make bioweapons, then maybe, but there shouldn’t be any harm in letting a genius have a few psychology and pharmacology textbooks.”

Rossi frowned a little deeper. “What are the chances he doesn’t know he’s overmedicated and overdiagnosed?”

Meadowlark shook his head. “Non-existent.”

Hotch let out a soft sigh and turned his chair a bit, looking toward the office where Genius was sleeping on the couch. “He told us multiple times that he was on too many medications, but we had no way of knowing whether he was being truthful until now.”

Rossi watched Hotch for a moment or two. It may have been a fair statement, but Hotch didn’t seem convinced of his own words, and the way his gaze lingered on Genius’ room implied guilt to Rossi.

“It’s understandable.” Meadowlark shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the entire point of the program, right? If we believe everything geniuses say, they could talk us into just about anything. We’re supposed to trust that someone is keeping an eye on the geniuses and taking care of them.”

Emily scoffed and shook her head. “Yeah, well, they’re doing a bad job.”

“Agreed.” Dr. Meadowlark stood up and looked down at his file, sighing after a moment and closing it. “I’ll talk to some of my associates who work a little more closely with ICAP. I would like to know how frequently scenarios like this take place.”

“If you could report back to us with anything you find, it would be much appreciated.” Hotch paused and cleared his throat. “Genius is typically adamant about being overmedicated, but a couple days ago, he asked for extra Ritalin. I didn’t give it to him because I was concerned about addiction. When he was still doing bad yesterday, I gave him a half a pill, and it seemed to help, but he insisted it wasn’t enough. Did you get any sort of read on a possible addictive personality?”

Meadowlark pressed his lips together and considered the question for a few seconds, tilting his head from side to side. “Ehh… inconclusive. Without full access to past medical records, it’s hard to say. If he has a history of depressive episodes more severe than this, it could be a psychological addiction, but if it’s normally milder, he could just be hitting his limit. There’s nothing wrong with taking a stimulant to get through your day, per ce, but they’re supposed to be used for when you absolutely have to get up and function. If you turn them into a staple, which ICAP has… it could very easily evolve into an addiction.”

“He took one the night after Hotch said no.”

Hotch’s head snapped over to look at Morgan—most of the table did, actually—both angry and concerned. “What?”

“When you guys were away on the case,” Morgan explained. “He asked me for Ritalin when it was just the two of us. I said no, but later on his behavior started getting less sluggish and more… I dunno, wired?” He considered his words for a few seconds and then shook his head. “I woke up two hours later, and he was calming himself down to prevent a panic attack. I let him know I knew he took the medication, and he didn’t deny it.”

Meadowlark responded to the new information before Hotch had the chance, and Rossi was secretly a bit grateful for that. Dr. Meadowlark seemed to be a bit more mellow about the whole thing.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s addicted. He has been dealing with these problems for a long time, and he could simply think the trade is worth it. You said he was preventing a panic attack?”

Morgan nodded. “He said when there’s no trigger, he can calm himself down.”

Meadowlark nodded back. “It’s often easier to stop a panic attack when you know exactly what the cause is and how long it’s going to last. It’s possible your genius would rather endure a panic attack he has some control over than a depressive episode that is completely out of his hands. It wouldn’t be the first time someone who wasn’t an addict made that choice.”

Meadowlark left it at that and pointed to Hotch. “You said you wanted to meet with me privately,” and then he pointed to Emily, “and there is something your genius has for you.”

Emily pointed to herself. “For me?”

Meadowlark nodded with a small smile. “He’ll explain it.”

Emily blinked a few times and looked around the room, hesitating for another second or two before leaving the room.

Rossi looked out the window and watched her go, tuning out the conversation in the room.

_What are you up to, kid?_

* * *

Emily wasn’t sure what to expect when she entered the semi-furnished bedroom, but she kept that uncertainty out of her eyes and body language. “Genius?”

Genius, who had finally managed to change clothes but remained in bed, smiled up at her. “Agent Prentiss.” He pulled an envelope from underneath the blankets, chewing his lip and carefully evaluating her.

Emily stood a few feet away, giving him space but showing her involvement was voluntary. She stayed quiet, a light smile on her lips, and waited for him to explain.

“This… is a self-evaluation.” He tapped the envelop a few times. “Dr. Meadowlark said I could write one up and give it to one person on the team. It can only be read by that one person, and that one person is supposed to keep an eye on the diagnoses being made by Dr. Meadowlark. He said, especially since he doesn’t have my past medical records, that he expects them to run along similar lines, even if they aren’t the same.”

Emily nodded multiple times while Genius spoke, and when he was finished, she responded with the conclusion she had come to. “You want me to be the person.”

Genius nodded his head with a little smile, holding out the envelope with a shaking hand. “Will you do it, Agent Prentiss? I’ll pick someone else, if you want.”

Emily shook her head, taking the envelope carefully and holding it in her hands. She looked down at it for a few seconds, contemplating the decision Genius had made and trying to figure out why.

“Is there a reason you chose me?” she finally asked, looking up to see him still smiling at her. Briefly, she wondered if Dr. Meadowlark had given him something.

“Out of everyone on the team, you spend the least amount of time with me, and I think you do it on purpose.”

Emily opened her mouth to object, but Genius kept going.

“I think you know that if the team were to try and speak out on my behalf, they would most likely being disregarded because of their emotional attachment. You keep your distance, not because you don’t care, but because you want to make sure you’ll be seen as a credible, objective source of information. I know you care because you gave me cookies when I was fighting with the team. I know because you smile at me more than anyone else, because you don’t want to hurt me while trying to help me.”

Emily felt her eyes start to burn, and she pressed her lips together, looking down at the envelope again.

“I see other things you do, too. I read over your shoulder sometimes, and I know you’re learning all you can about geniuses and ICAP and its policies. I overheard you talking to an old friend of your mother, trying to get the unredacted medical files sent in to Hotch.”

Emily swallowed, blinked the tears away, and kept her breathing level.

“I want you to have my self-evaluation because I know you’ll be objective and fair, but also because I wanted you to know that I understand.” Genius wet his lips and swallowed, glancing away before looking back at her. “I haven’t seen my mom since I was twelve, but I still love her more than anyone in the world. I understand that sometimes you can’t be there for the people you care about, no matter how much you want to, and that it doesn’t mean you care less than those who are able to get closer.”

Emily approached the bed before she realized what she was doing, wrapping an arm around Genius and pulling him into a hug. She pressed his head against her chest and squeezed him, refusing to let a single tear fall.

Because that was who Emily was. Emily was the queen of masks, whether it was for others’ benefit or her own. She had walls to uphold, but that didn’t mean she didn’t love just as strongly and intensely as everyone else.

Somehow, Genius had realized that about her in two weeks of minimal communication. Emily was lucky if someone started to piece together the intricacies of her personality in two decades. But, she supposed, that was what made Genius a genius. He saw and understood what other people couldn’t, and it was one of the many, many things that made him special.

“I was going to reach out more after your room was finished,” she said softly, letting him go and taking a step back to put space between them. “I was going to start leaving cookies on a weekly basis. Maybe even slide a few notes under the door after hours.”

Genius smiled up at her, sinking back into the sheets but looking brighter than he had in several days. “I would like that, Agent Prentiss.”

Emily smiled at him, tapped the envelope against her hand, and nodded toward the door. “I’ll get back to the team. They’ll be doting all day, I’m sure.”

Genius nodded his head, the smile slowly fading as he sank deeper into the sheets.

Emily turned to go but stopped at the door, looking over her shoulder. “Genius.”

“Yeah?”

“Just because you have the energy to smile, it doesn’t mean you have to. I understand that sometimes you just want to smile on the inside.”

Despite her words, his smile did return a bit. “Thank you.”

“Just returning a favor.” She offered him another smile and left, closing the door gently behind her.

 _Genius…_ She looked at the envelope again. _You are something truly incredible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ritalin is not to be trifled with, man. I took two Excedrin for a migraine with a measly ten mg of Ritalin, and I went from 'this keeps me awake when I need it to but causes some anxiety' to 'I CAN FEEL THE UNIVERSE.' Ritalin, man.
> 
> Also, now that we have a little more insight into Genius' condition, we'll be diving back into case-solving in the next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves the plot and some scenes from s02e22, "Legacy."

“Hey. Hey, don’t cry.” Whisper. “Ashland is gonna be fine.”

“No, he’s not. You know he’s not.” Tears. “He talked. He talked about his special job.”

“It was only to a guard, and Ashland has a way of getting out of trouble. It’ll be fine.”

Whimpering. “They’re gonna make him _leave_ , and you know it. It’ll be just like Harvey, like Neal, like Caleb and Summer and T—”

“Stop it. Stop it, okay? Things aren’t gonna go that way. Not this time.” Pause. “I don’t know how, but this isn’t going to end with people getting put down.”

“You can’t say that!” Fear. “They _leave,_ they don’t get put down.”

Irritation. “Fine. No one is _leaving_ , then.”

Florescent lights humming. Pipes carrying hot water.

“Even if Ashland stays, it’s going to turn out bad.” Crying. “People are getting scared, and if ICAP doesn’t make them go away, they’re going to quit. It’ll be Maeve all over again. One will do it, and then another, and then domino effect.” Shudder. “Or worse. Remember Spencer? He c—”

“Don’t talk about him. He’s in the field right now. If he’s smart, he’ll make a run for it.” Mumbling. “We will not disrespect his freedom by bringing the memory of him back to this place.”

Soft. “They’ll tell us to stop soon. So, no matter what happens… to any of us… you were and always will be my best friend.”

Pause. Blinking. Choked. “Uh, yeah—yeah, you too.”

Silence.

Silence.

Inhale. “If you ever escape again—”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“But if it _does_ … will you find my parents and tell them how sorry I am?”

Sharp. Commanding. Hard. “Hey! That’s enough chatter, you two.”

Hands moving, signing an unspoken reply, a smile pulling on blackened lips as the message jumped across the hall.

‘I will. I promise.’

A small smile, a single tear, little hands using their own gestures to express gratitude.

‘Thank you, Penelope.’

* * *

“I know it’s been, like, a week, but I finally got those files from my TAD connection. There’s a lot of budget statements, some requisition forms, and employee records, but there’s also case summaries for cases geniuses have helped with.”

Hotch tapped the end of his pen on the legal pad in front of him. “By and large, FBI divisions don’t mind putting their summaries in the open archives. We can definitely use that to our advantage.”

JJ nodded from where she sat on arm of the couch. “I already started sorting the cases by date, and I’m going to ask Genius to give me the numbers of his blockmates. I can get details from him, check to see if the details line up, and start making a timeline.”

Rossi chimed in from where he leaned against his desk, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. “We can use that to check for delusions, too. If we can prove the people Genius befriended in ICAP actually existed, we can tell Dr. Meadowlark. He might be able to debunk the Schizoaffective diagnosis and get him off those anti-pyschs.” He paused then, drumming his fingers on the desk next to him. “How’s that working out, by the way?”

Hotch shrugged his shoulders and smiled uncertainly. “It’s only been a week, so there isn’t a lot of change. Genius is taking Ritalin only as needed, but given how bad the fatigue has been, he’s used it almost every day.”

“Hey.” JJ held up a finger. “That’s still better than every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Silver lining, guys.”

Rossi grabbed his water glass from behind him and raised it. “I’ll drink to that.”

Hotch smiled faintly, but he wasn’t as convinced. Or maybe he was, he just couldn’t tell because he was also drowning in feelings of helplessness. He wanted to _do_ something.

“Yes, well…” Hotch cleared his throat. “We are also decreasing the Seroquel, so we’ll have to keep an eye on his behavior and take notes. His next appointment is in two weeks.”

“Is Genius going to start sleeping here?” JJ asked, and while she glanced at Rossi, her gaze remained on the obvious leader of their mission. “His room is basically finished, and we’re going shopping for the finishing touches tomorrow morning. Morgan installed a really nice, high-tech lock to help with the fear of no supervision.”

Hotch nodded a few times. “Good. I would like to, at the very least, get him to try it.”

Rossi hummed, lips pursed slightly. “Be careful, though. If it’s going to cause more anxiety, just let him stay at my place. He can try again when he’s stable, after we’ve got all these drugs figured out.”

“I know. I’ll be very gentle about it.” Hotch scribbled down a few notes and started tapping his pen again. “I don’t intend to get him a cubicle. I think the more time he spends in his room, even if he’s just doing paperwork, the more it’s going to feel familiar and safe.”

JJ nodded emphatically. “Agreed. I’ll have him look at desks when we go shopping tomorrow.” She paused, glancing between. “Is that everything?”

Rossi finished the rest of his water and set the glass down, pushing off the desk and putting his hands on his hips. “We have to decide whether or not he’s allowed in the field again.”

Hotch pressed his lips together and contemplated the page in front of him. He tapped his pen a few more times and then set it down, leaning back in his chair. “I think we should take him along, barring unforeseen circumstances. If he’s feeling exceptionally bad the next time we get a case, then we won’t, or if we think the case will be particularly upsetting for him. But I think, at the very least, he trusts us enough for us to keep anything terrible from happening.”

Rossi pointed to JJ then. “How’s that coming, by the way?”

JJ looked at him and blinked, taking a moment to process the jump in topic before replying. “Oh, you mean the caseload? I was able to divert a couple to Cooper’s team, but we aren’t going to have much time to recharge; as of right now, we finished one case and solved three in eighteen days.”

Hotch rubbed his face. “We normally close about fifteen cases in a year. We’re almost a third of the way there in less than a month.”

Rossi sighed. “And here I thought this aching back was just me getting too old.”

JJ and Hotch both smiled at that, and JJ got to her feet. “Now are we done?”

Hotch nodded and tucked his notepad into one of his drawers, pulling out an overdue report. “If anything changes, let me know.”

“Yup.” JJ left the office, closing the door behind her.

Rossi looked at Hotch for a moment or two, and then he jerked his head in the direction of the bullpen. “We’re still not bringing in Emily and Morgan?”

Hotch shook his head, not looking up from his work. “Genius is very fragile right now, and I want there to be at least one person on this team who is a hundred percent focused on being his friend. Having two people gives us the wiggle room we might need in case of an emergency.”

Rossi nodded in agreement. “I think that’s probably in the kid’s best interests right now.”

Hotch glanced up from his paperwork, knowing he must have looked more tired than he felt. “Rossi, we need to do something about this caseload. Do you know anything at all about the section chief replacing Strauss?”

Rossi shook his head. “Nope. But she’s coming in tomorrow, so we’re about to find out.”

Hotch didn’t have anything to say to that, so he simply bowed his head and got back to work, praying the newcomer would have both the wisdom and the guts to go to bat for them.

_If she doesn’t… we’re going to burn out very, very soon._

* * *

JJ smiled as Genius darted back and fourth between the bedroom displays, little giggles escaping him as he rushed gleefully through the Bed, Bath, and Beyond without apparent rhyme or reason.

Emily stopped the cart at the first display bed, as it seemed Genius intended to stay in that section for a while, and leaned over. “Has it occurred to you this might not have been the best idea?”

“Yeah. I got that, Emily. I got that. Thanks.” JJ smiled, cheerful despite her sarcastic words, and jogged ahead.

“There’s so many colors!” Genius ground to a halt in front of a red, orange, and yellow bedspread. “I thought they only made colorful beds for kids. This is so cool; it looks like spray paint!”

JJ laughed and glanced at the price tag. “Is this what you w—”

“Look at that one! There are so many flowers! Ooh, plaid. There’s a lot of plaid. Ooh!” Genius reached back and frantically grabbed JJ’s hand. “Ooh…” He pulled her along, weaving in between the beds until he came to a red, white, and blue bed set on display.

Genius looked at JJ with wide, sparkling eyes. “Ooh.”

JJ smiled, briefly thinking it was excessively patriotic, but the sponged, watercolor texture took some of that away. Not that it mattered. She would enthusiastically encourage whatever Genius chose as long as it was what he truly wanted. “Is this your favorite?”

Genius nodded and pressed his hands into the mattress, a wide smile on his face. “And can we—can we get orange sheets, too? Blue, red, and orange? Can that be my room? My theme? For my room, I mean? My room theme? Can it? Please?”

JJ nodded, unable to keep the smile from her face. “Of course, Genius. That sounds like a good color scheme.” It was a fairly uncommon one, and she wasn’t sure how it would look all put together, but she didn’t care. “It’s unique. You could start a trend. Are you going to want extra blankets?”

Genius gaped at her. “Is that allowed?”

JJ laughed and grabbed a packaged bedspread from the foot of the display bed. Then she turned the tables on Genius and took _him_ by the hand, pulling him back to the center aisle.

“Hey,” Emily commented when JJ put the blanket in the cart. “You found something you like.”

Genius smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but JJ pulled him away before he could, taking him just a few more steps until they stood in front of a large wall of microfiber blankets.

“He’s going to pick out some extra blankets,” JJ explained over her shoulder.

Emily pushed the cart a little closer and then joined them, softly rubbing a selection of dark purple fabric. “Do soft things help to relieve your anxiety, Genius?”

Genius shifted where he stood. “I… I don’t know.” He reached out and ran his fingers over an orange one. “I know I really like soft things. Do you… I mean, have you heard it helps?”

Emily shrugged her shoulders slightly. “I struggled with some anxiety in high school and college.” She reached over to rub a pink blanket. “My room was always full of soft things.” She opened her mouth like she was going to say more, but then she stopped.

“Did they help?” Genius asked softly. “I know they make me feel happy. Is it like that?”

“Kind of, yeah. I…” Emily pulled a pink blanket off the shelf and turned it over in her hands, struggling with her words for a moment. “I was more comfortable sleeping on the floor in a pile of soft things than sleeping on a soft mattress with cotton sheets. Does that make sense?”

Genius nodded a few times, grabbing the purple one Emily had been looking at earlier. “Yeah, it makes perfect sense. There are different kinds of soft.” He pressed his face against the bundle and smiled. “How’m I gonna pick just one?”

JJ frowned slightly. “Genius, you can buy as many as you want.” She retracted the statement almost immediately, holding up her hand. “Actually, how about you start with three, and we’ll add to the collection as we go.”

Unsurprisingly, Genius was quick to grab a red and orange patterned blanket as well as a blue one. He put both in the cart along with the purple one he had been holding.

“I like purple, too,” he explained, giving Emily a flash of a smile.

Emily laughed softly and put the pink one in as well. “You picked great colors.” She gave him a playful nudge. “But the pink one is mine, so hands off.”

Genius giggled to himself. “Yes, ma’am.” He giggled again and looked over at JJ. “What are we going to do now?”

“Well, we need to get you some curtains, and we’ll look at some of the wall art and pictures, too.” JJ gave him a warm smile. “We want you to personalize it a little bit, you know?”

“Can I—” Genius cut himself off, looking down at his anxiously twisting feet. “Um, I was thinking… I’m… I’m going to have paperwork to do, and I thought… I thought it would be cool if I had my own little desk… and like, like, like a filing cabinet? And those little desk organizers with the tiny slots and drawers and, and those little toys—like the birds that bob up and down and drink the water?” He slowly lifted his head, biting down on his lip and looking at JJ with hopeful eyes. “I know it can fit in my room. I measured. So… so, could I… could I have my own desk?”

JJ muscled through the stabbing pain in her chest and nodded, a smile ever-present on her lips. “Yes, absolutely.”

Genius brightened up immediately, his entire demeanor emanating sheer happiness, and he bounded away. He had, apparently, located the office section earlier and had simply been working up the courage to ask permission to go there.

Emily laughed softly and followed along, shaking her head at the display.

JJ followed behind Emily, smiling to herself, but with a bit more sadness in it.

Genius had been so, so afraid to ask for a desk of his own, and he probably thought the permission was based only on his request. He didn’t understand they were already planning on giving him a work space in his bedroom—they had talked about it less than twenty-four hours earlier—and it seemed Genius didn’t yet see himself as part of the team.

Well, she knew he didn’t. Going by the still forbidden act of speaking his real name, Genius had made his feelings about his relationship with the team painfully apparent. Still, he didn’t seem to think they were against him. He had opened up to Hotch and JJ multiple times, he spent most nights with Rossi but had requested more than once to stay with Morgan, and he had entrusted Emily with his self-evaluation.

But Genius didn’t think he was their equal. It was like he saw himself as a beloved family pet. Or perhaps he felt like a child—loved unconditionally but monitored and controlled and far too often treated like less than a person.

 _It’s a process,_ she reminded herself. _He’s never been treated like an adult before. He hasn’t been respected or trusted in twelve years. It’s going to take time for him to understand, and as long as he isn’t hurting himself, we can’t be overwhelming him with all these new concepts._

It might have sent a knife through JJ’s heart when Genius asked for permission for the smallest things, but it didn’t hurt him at all. It came naturally, and when he was already so overwhelmed and afraid, taking away what little of the world he _did_ understand would be cruel.

To do so just because it caused her pain would be cruel and selfish.

And JJ knew she had flaws—everyone did—but she was not selfish. She would never intentionally hurt Genius. More than that, she would do everything in her power to make sure such unintentional mistakes were never made.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ was not a phrase in JJ’s vocabulary. She knew more than anyone how impactful the slightest change in tone or terminology could be. She knew the kind of affect a simple gesture like a hug or making a cup of hot tea could have on a broken person.

“Agent Jereau! Agent Jereau! Look, look, look!”

JJ pulled herself from her thoughts with a smile. “I’m here, you can show me.”

_I’m always here, Spencer._

* * *

Hotch may have been the one to say Genius was ready for the field, but that didn’t stop him from doubting himself. Thankfully, it only took them one and a half days to get a potential case, and they had been no more than twelve minutes into reviewing it when Genius blew all doubts out of the water.

Hotch could still picture the way Genius had jumped in when it looked like Hotch might refuse to visit the Kansas City police department. He had leaned forward in his chair, eyes focused, and a sudden undertone of urgency pervaded his voice.

“We profile serial killers based on patterns in behavior,” Genius had argued. “Detective McGee clearly has OCD, and people with his kind of OCD pay close attention to detail. He would definitely notice any change in the patterns of his surroundings, even if that meant a lack of any behavior at all. Behavior that is consistently disrupted or missing is a pattern in its own right.”

Hotch had considered interrupting at that point, but he ultimately decided he wanted to see how things played out. So, Genius had continued his rapid-fire reasoning.

“Crimes against the homeless often go unreported because homeless people are cut off from the rest of society. They have no jobs, thus no coworkers, and they are very rarely in touch with their families. On top of that, there are an estimated 64,000 illegal immigrants in Kansas, and Kansas City holds five percent of the state’s legal population. Five percent of 64,000 get us 3,200 illegal immigrants in Kansas City, Kansas. Kansas City is estimated to have around 2,700 homeless people. Overlap is immediately apparent, but let’s take it one more step by estimating one third of the homeless population is made up of illegals. That gives us 900 homeless illegal immigrants, which is over fourteen times the number of people Detective McGee believes are missing. It also means the unsub could grab anyone at random and have a one in three chance of taking an illegal immigrant. Combine all of that with the fact that legal citizens who are homeless are rarely reported missing, and it would be unusual if any of these missings _had_ been reported, not the other way around.”

Genius had taken a giant gulp of air and continued. “On top of that, if no official investigation has been opened, then there’s no way other departments or jurisdictions are aware of the disappearances. Kansas City, Missouri has three times the population of Kansas City, Kansas; they could be missing just as many people, if not more, and we would have no way of knowing. And Agent Hotchner—”

That was when Hotch had finally cut Genius off, explaining that he had been sold on the idea since JJ pressed the issue. Genius was immediately satisfied, and Hotch invited him along. If McGee’s superiors tried to deny the presence of a problem, Genius clearly had an arsenal with which he could statistically strongarm them into cooperation.

Besides, Hotch didn’t want to be too far away from Genius.

Things had improved in the days since Genius started seeing Dr. Meadowlark, but he was still largely unstable, and Hotch felt he had been away too long. Not that he didn’t trust JJ and Morgan, he simply… didn’t like that they had been spending more time with Genius than him.

Not in a jealous way, of course. It wasn’t like Hotch was the first person to take an interest in Genius or the entire reason Genius was in their custody in the first place. It wasn’t like Hotch was the first one Genius opened up to, and it definitely wasn’t like Hotch felt a personal responsibility to Genius as his charge.

Besides, even if things _were_ like that, Hotch was too mature and logical to dwell on it.

“Agent Hotchner, are we there yet?”

Hotch glanced up from his schedule—his color-coded, soccer dad schedule—and looked across the aisle to Genius’ side of the jet. “It shouldn’t be too long.”

Genius nodded and pressed his face against the glass, letting out a heavy sigh.

Hotch lifted a brow slightly. “That was a heavy sigh.”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

Hotch looked at Genius, but he didn’t offer medication. He had decided to never offer Ritalin so he could get a more accurate idea of how often Genius wanted it. So far, Hotch hadn’t gotten the idea Genius was severely addicted in any way, which made him feel much better about agreeing every time Genius asked.

Because Hotch had agreed every time Genius asked since his appointment with Dr. Meadowlark.

“Agent Hotchner…?”

Hotch glanced at him, ready for the question. “Yes?”

“Can I…” Genius fidgeted in his seat. “Do you… do you really believe I can do this? That I can… get better?”

Hotch hadn’t been expecting that, but he immediately put his attention on Genius, expressing nothing but warmth and safety. “I don’t believe that, Genius. I know it. I know it like you know the first one thousand digits of pi.”

“2,934, actually.”

“Exactly.” Hotch smiled at him. “I know it double and then some. It’s not a matter of if; it’s a matter of when.”

Genius looked away, gluing his eyes to the window and shifting in his seat. “Okay. I’ll try… I’ll try to stay awake. I think maybe I can.”

Hotch rested an arm on the table and continued to look at Genius despite the lack of reciprocation. “Genius, be honest. Do you need Ritalin?”

Genius shrugged. “I don’t know. I want to try without, but… I’m scared.”

“Would you like to try coffee? Or some kind of energy drink?” Hotch caught the way Genius shrank in on himself. “Is that what you’re afraid of, Genius?”

Genius bit down on his lip. “If I use a drink and it isn’t enough, I won’t be able to take Ritalin, either. I’ll be stuck. I don’t wanna be stuck, Agent Hotchner.” His voice had dissolved into a whine by the end.

Hotch took a couple moments to think things through, and then he wet his lips and tried to find a gentle way to say, ‘that’s life, buddy.’

“Genius… there are going to be bad days.” Hotch shook his head slightly. “We can’t avoid that no matter what we do. I think you should try to drink something. I think having one bad day is worth it if it can help us figure out how to fight the fatigue without sending you into a panic. But I’m not you. I don’t know how it feels to be where you are.”

Genius chewed on his lips some more. “It would be nice… not to have to choose between feeling nothing and feeling everything.” He started to scratch at his arms, catching the edge of the scabs that had formed. “If I… if I try the drink, and it doesn’t work… what happens?”

“Don’t pick your arms, buddy. Scratch your legs, okay?” Hotch waited until the order had been followed to respond to Genius’ question. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Genius started to bounce his leg, which made it difficult to scratch, but he somehow managed both. “What… what should I do? If it doesn’t work?”

“Genius, look at me.” Hotch spoke softly, immediately understanding.

Genius slowly turned his head, uncertainty clear in his eyes.

“If an energy drink doesn’t work, what you do is come right to me, and we will find a way to work through it together.”

“But what if you’re busy? What if—”

“You come to me anyway. You always, _always_ come to me. If you can’t find me for some reason, you go to another member of our team.” Hotch leaned over a little, seeking further eye contact. “Okay? We are here for you. We will help you through this.”

Genius stared back for a moment, and then he smiled with a nearly whispered, “Okay.”

Hotch smiled in return. “Good.”

Hotch leaned back and almost moved on to his next project, but he changed his mind and looked at Genius instead. “Do you want to try an energy drink when we land, or do you want Ritalin?”

Genius considered it for half a second. “I’ll… I’ll try a drink.”

Hotch smiled. “I thought so, but I didn’t want to assume. It would have been okay if you disagreed with me even after I explained.”

Genius curled in on himself a little bit, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “Thanks, Agent Hotchner. I… just thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Genius.”

Hotch waited until Genius looked out the window again, and then he got back to his list of to-dos. He pulled a stack of case summaries out of his bag and stared at them blankly. _I was going somewhere with this…_ He was exhausted. _But I had an idea. I had a thought._

He scanned the page, eyes flickering from word to word until the abandoned train of thought was recovered. _Rossi. I was calling Rossi. I was calling Rossi because I saw something earlier._

Why did he have his planner out then?

Lord have mercy, he was losing his mind.

Hotch sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping it open. He dialed quickly and waited for a few rings, and then Rossi answered.

“Yeah?” His voice came through a bit crackly.

“Hey, I need you to look into something for me.” Hotch shuffled through the papers until he found the notes he had made sometime after takeoff. “I want you to look into Genius #1269163-4385. He worked on cases consistently for about a year, and then disappeared roughly four months ago. I can’t find him anywhere.”

“I’ll start digging around.” Rossi paused. “Refresh my memory… what are the numbers we have so far?”

“Well, Genius is… 2036334-4383…” Hotch turned toward Genius and leaned over, tapping him on the knee. “Hey, can you tell me the numbers for your old cellmates?”

Genius tilted his head, confused, but complied nonetheless. “No. 0366651-4381 and No. 6319314-4436.”

Hotch nodded his thanks and repeated the numbers into the phone.

“Okay, so the last one’s an outlier, but we have 4381, 4383, and now 4385. It sounds like a sequence of some sort. I can try to pull out all cases involving a 4380s genius, but it will take a while…”

Hotch pursed his lips, brow creasing in thought. “Even 4436 isn’t all that far away. It’s…”

“Fifty-six.”

Hotch glanced at Genius and gave him a grateful smile. “It’s only fifty-six number gap.”

“You want me to look into the whole range?”

Hotch considered it for a moment, but then he shook his head. “No, stick with the eighties for now. We’ll expand when we have more time and more facts.”

“Got it. Keep in touch, Aaron. We’re reporting and filing here, but we’re ready whenever you need us.”

Hotch smiled slightly. “Yes, I know. I’ll call you as soon as we get the case.”

Hotch hung up his phone and set it aside, returning to his project and frowning. _ICAP has their own doctors, kitchen workers, and guards. They have their own cafeteria, gym, library… they do their own laundry and building maintenance. It’s practically impossible to find a third party vendor who works in or around the building._

Still, a third party was one of the easiest ways to get information without raising flags, so he grabbed a blank sheet and started to write. What other choice did he have?

_They would have to get pharmaceuticals… food or ingredients in bulk... and there has to be some company providing electricity…_

* * *

“Can I… can I ask you something?”

Hotch looked away from the evidence board and crinkled his brow, slightly concerned by the timid nature used to present the question. “Of course. You can ask me anything.”

Genius chewed on his lip, then his nails, and then his lip again. He grinned to himself, like a giddy little mischief maker, and then turned serious again. “Um, well… I really liked, um, what you said to…” he glanced around, and then began to gesture with his hand. “You know. You were really sassy.”

Hotch’s eyebrows shot up, and he tried not to laugh. “Sassy?”

Genius nodded rapidly. “I… I just wondered… I, um, I’m not making excuses. I know what I did in Texas was wrong. I know I have to behave. I, um, I just…”

Hotch immediately understood, his mouth opening in a silent ‘aha’ as he began to nod. “You want to know why it’s okay when I speak out of turn but not you, right?”

Genius bit his lip, a grin still tugging at the corner every now and then. “Is that okay?”

Hotch smiled reassuringly. “It is absolutely okay.” He grabbed a dry erase marker and started drawing the timeline Detective McGee had given them. “It’s a valid question.”

Hotch paused, took a breath, and then dove in. “There are a few reasons. One of the big things to consider is what is at stake. In Texas, we were already on the case to find Owen Savage, and the only thing that could have come from arguing with the local police was conflict. We weren’t on the case when we got here, and we could have sixty-three—”

“Given the timeline and how quickly the unsub is spiraling, it’s probably sixty-four now.”

Hotch smiled and offered a brief nod. “My point is, there are a lot of people who could be hurt or dead, and there are even more people who could be in danger. But, unlike in Texas, we were not given the authority to help them. Trying things the nice way hadn’t gotten us on the case, so I had to make a decision. My attitude with the captain could have led to further conflict, _or_ it could have led to feelings of guilt or—and this is what I think happened—made him very determined to prove me wrong.”

Genius nodded a few times, his expression thoughtful. “So, if Agent Jereau hadn’t found that letter, your arguing with him might have been enough to get us put on the case. My arguing wouldn’t gain anything.”

“Correct.” Hotch switched colors to mark down potential victims of the opposite gender. “Then I did something else. Did you notice?”

Genius thought about it for a second, and then his face lit up. “You told him we would share the information we found, and you said his cops would make the arrest. That was to make nice, right?”

Hotch chuckled softly, but he couldn’t deny the accuracy of the term. “Yes, that was to make nice. So, even when the situation does call for a short-temper, you always have to be prepared to not only ease up on the offensive, but retreat a little.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, it worked, but we’ll have to wait and see. Do you understand?”

Genius nodded a few times and then fell silent. He stayed still, lost in thought, and then he shook himself and grabbed a marker of his own.

Hotch put his attention back on the timeline, but he hardly got two names down when it was stolen again.

“You’re an authoritative dad.”

Hotch looked at Genius and blinked a few times. “What?”

Genius didn’t look at him, but his pen was moving sluggishly. “You, um… there are four types of parenting styles. Authoritarian, authoritative, permissive, and uninvolved.”

Hotch almost nodded but realized Genius wasn’t looking at him. “Yes, I’m familiar with the parenting styles. You think I’m authoritative?” Which, Hotch supposed, was good, because it was the best one to be.

“My dad was uninvolved, my mom was permissive, and ICAP was authoritarian, but you’re authoritative.” Genius tapped the board a few times, but he didn’t appear to be writing anything. “I’ve never had an authoritative—” he tripped on his words a bit, “—authoritative person. Um, over me, I mean. In a position of power. Like… over me. Telling me what to do. I just—I just never had it.” He smiled to himself, but it was weak. “I like it.” He smiled again, just a flicker, and then he slouched with a sigh. “Agent Hotchner…”

Hotch frowned slightly, immediately concerned. _Normal to emotional to tired. This might not be good._

“My drink is wearing off… and I’m kind of wishing I had taken Ritalin instead.”

Hotch set his pen aside and put his attention on Genius fully. “Okay. Do you have any idea of what you’d like to do, or is that what you need from me?”

Genius looked at Hotch for a moment and then his head bobbed.

Hotch pursed his lips for a moment and folded his arms over his chest, thoughtful. “Well,” he started, “we have a couple of options. You could get another drink. Based on how long this one lasted, the second one would wear off right around ten in the evening. That’s about when we would want to sleep. You could also lie down on the bench over there for now, and see if a little rest helps. If it doesn’t, I can take you back to the hotel.”

Genius shuffled his feet, staring at the ground, and from the way his fingers were drumming against his thigh, Hotch knew he was holding something back.

“Genius?” he prodded softly.

“I…” Genius tucked his chin, somehow, tighter against his chest. “Could I just… go to the hotel now? I just really… I really want to sleep. But—but if you need me, I can make myself stay awake. I really can.”

“No, you can’t, and that’s okay.” Hotch smiled warmly, trying to relay unjudging acceptance. “It is perfectly fine if you need or want to go to the hotel. Let me finish drawing this so it’s here for the team, and then we can go.”

Genius nodded his head a few times. “You want me to help?”

“Nope.” Hotch smiled at him and then reclaimed his marker.

For a few minutes, it was quiet. Genius sat on the edge of the table, waiting for Hotch to be done, and Hotch stood a few feet away, working as quickly and carefully as he could.

 “I’m really sorry, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch frowned slightly, turning toward Genius and summoning him with a few fingers.

Genius got up from his chair, still looking ashamed, and shuffled over to stand beside Hotch.

Hotch put his outstretched arm around Genius’ shoulders and pulled him close. “Why are you sorry?”

Genius shrugged, curling in on himself and nestling his body as close to Hotch’s as he could. “Everything,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’m… broken.” He shrugged again. “I dunno.”

Hotch gave him a gentle squeeze and spoke softly, right into his ear. “It’s okay, Genius. It’s okay to be broken.” He smiled even though Genius was staring at the floor, his hand rubbing Genius’ upper arm. “We’re all a little broken, to be honest.”

Genius only shook his head. “Not like me.”

Hotch shrugged. “Not today, maybe. But someday, I might be the broken one, and you might be the together one. Will you be angry with me when that time comes?”

Genius shook his head rapidly, finally looking up at Hotch with tears in his eyes.

“I didn’t think so.” Hotch raised his eyebrows, an innocent curiosity crossing his face. “Will you want me to apologize?”

Genius shook his head again, faster than before, and he leaned into Hotch’s side.

“Good.” Hotch gestured to the board in front of them. “I can handle this case. I want you to listen to your body and _rest_.”

“But—”

“You aren’t letting anyone down, Genius.” Hotch smiled at him and shook his head, a teasing sparkle in his eyes he hoped would relay a sense of silliness about the whole ordeal. “We managed for quite some time before you joined this team. If we think we’re running out of time, or if we think you have some expertise we need, we’ll come and get you, but it isn’t your job to see this team through every single case.”

Genius looked at him for a few moments, seeming desperate to object, but then he started to nod his head. “Okay.”

“Good.” Hotch squeezed him again.

Genius didn’t try to move away, and while Hotch eventually had to remove his arm so he could write, he always kept the other hand on Genius. Shoulder, back of the neck, elbow—even holding a hand. No matter what, Hotch maintained some level of physical contact.

He never let go.

* * *

“Can you _please_ stop that?”

Hotch’s first thought was, ‘Did I say that out loud?’

It quickly changed when he realized the voice had been female.

It became, ‘Did someone just snap at Genius?” and that brought out several thoughts.

Protectiveness; Genius might have had some incredibly annoying quirks, but it wasn’t his fault, and there were worse human flaws. Apprehension; whoever snapped probably didn’t realize what Genius was capable of when set off emotionally. Embarrassment; despite his every attempt to deny and suppress it, Genius often made Hotch feel uncomfortable in public with his oddities. Irritation; because why _couldn’t_ Genius just _stop_ drumming his fingers on the counter for a _single_ _nanosecond?_

In the end, though, it didn’t much matter what Hotch thought or felt about the situation. He had no sooner turned to the girl behind the counter when she continued.

“Oh, geeze, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s—I don’t know why I said that.”

Genius folded his arms on top of the counter and leaned forward, tilting his head to the side. “It’s okay. You seem upset. Has it been a long day?”

Laughing softly, the girl shook her head and briefly dabbed at one eye. “You have no idea.”

Genius glanced at her nametag and smiled slightly. “Tracy, do you get off soon?”

Tracy shook her head again, and when Hotch took a closer look, he realized her eyes were slightly glassy and red beneath the makeup meant to conceal her recent crying.

“I, um, I actually just clocked in.”

Genius only smiled again, his voice soft and comforting. “Do you handle room service, Tracy?”

Tracy looked at him for a moment, and Hotch saw her grow slightly uncomfortable. “Oh, no. I’m not, um—I’m not really looking for anything like that.”

Genius tilted his head to the side, utterly confused.

Hotch leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “Some guys would say something like that if they were hoping to sleep with Miss Tracy.”

Genius looked at Hotch, then Tracy, and then Hotch again. “But why would I do that? She’s clearly upset.”

Tracy laughed and sniffed, looking at Hotch with an incredulous smile. “Where can I buy this guy?”

Hotch returned the smile, a mix of pride and agreement in his voice. “You can’t. He’s one of a kind.”

Genius still seemed a little lost, but he simply smiled at Tracy again. “Well, once I get settled in my room and rest a bit, I’ll be coming back down to do some research for a case we’re working on. I’ll be using your computers over there,” he indicated the area with a quick point, “and I’ll be there for quite a while. If you want to talk, and if you can get away, come by. You look like you could use a friend.”

Tracy dabbed her eye again and nodded, smiling at him. “Thank you. Um… I don’t even know your name.”

“Spencer,” Genius replied. “But I’ll answer to just about anything as long as you let me know I’m supposed to.”

They shared a quick laugh, and Tracy pushed the dish of lollipops on the counter a little closer to him.

“Here. Have a couple more, on me.”

“Ooh.” Genius grabbed a handful and grinned at her. “See, what you didn’t know, is that all along, my master plan was to get more lollipops.”

They laughed again, and then Genius turned to Hotch with a smile. “Ready to head up?”

Hotch smiled and nodded, and then they started toward the elevators.

Genius trailed after him, turning to wave at Tracy before they were out of eyesight.

Hotch waited until they were in the elevator to make a comment—because, of course, a comment had to be made.

“So, Tracy… do you like her?” he asked, a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Genius shrugged his shoulders, slouching against the wall. “I don’t really know her, but she needs a friend. You can always tell when someone needs a friend, even if you don’t know them.”

“Oh?” Hotch pressed.

“Yeah. You just… y’know, feel it. You look at them, and… and you just feel in your gut that something isn’t right. There’s no scientific basis for it. You just… you just know.”

Hotch frowned, stepping out when the elevator doors opened.

“Agent Hotchner… this isn’t our floor.”

Hotch glanced up and then stepped backwards. “Oops.”

Hotch quickly backtracked through the conversation, but he didn’t want to get into anything too deep when Genius was so tired. “You looked better in the lobby. Did you pretend so you could cheer her up?”

Genius nodded tiredly.

“How are you going to go downstairs later?”

Genius nodded. “I might rest for an hour or two, but I’ll jolt back awake. I’ve always had really bad insomnia.”

Hotch pressed his lips together. “You, ah—you didn’t tell Dr. Meadowlark about any insomnia.”

“I told you. I’ve always had it.” Genius shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t seem relevant.”

Hotch stepped off—after making sure it was the right floor—and he started toward their assigned room. “Genius, you know that’s a lie. You know insomnia and hypersomnia are symptoms of depression. You know anxiety keeps you up at night.”

Genius hang his head as he followed, abashed, and he started to pick at his fingers and palms. “I know… I just… I didn’t want to go on any more medication. I… I was going to tell him, but then he said he was taking me off Ritalin, and I thought maybe without the Ritalin I would get to sleep easier. I was…”

Hotch used the card to open their door and stepped inside, holding it for Genius and listening intently.

“I was afraid if I said something… he wouldn’t wait to see… he would put me on something new. Even something natural, like—like melatonin. I didn’t want it. People think all-natural substances are different from prescription medication, and in some ways they are, but you’re still changing the chemicals in your body with an outside substance. It still—I just didn’t want anything new in my system, and I know that’s not my decision to make, but I…” Genius’ face twisted up a bit, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and then he shook his head. “No. No excuses. My reasons don’t matter. I was still bad, and I’m really sorry, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch wet his lips and shed his coat and bag, setting them on the bed closest to him. “Genius, it’s okay.” He spoke slowly and carefully, wanting to place clear boundaries without beating Genius over the head with guilt. “You shouldn’t have lied to me, but you can’t change that now. I don’t want you to do it again, but everything is still okay.”

Genius only slouched, shrinking into himself. “How… how do you want me?”

Hotch blinked. “Excuse me?”

Genius sniffed quietly and gestured toward the bed. “Should I sit so you can get my face? Or do you want me to put my hands on the desk? Or… or should I bend over something? It’s been a long time since I was belted, though, so… I might make noise, just so you know.”

Hotch slowly shook his head, caught somewhere between shock and horror. “Genius… I am _not_ going to hit you. Okay?”

But that only made Genius while. “Oh, please, don’t, Agent Hotchner. I _hate_ the stun gun.”

And that sounded entirely too much like, ‘Please don’t make me do paperwork. I _hate_ paperwork.’ It was disturbing in the extreme.

“Genius, I am not going to punish you.” Hotch somehow kept his voice both firm and gentle. “You were scared, and it wasn’t a big lie, so we’re going to let it go. I know about the insomnia now, and I can tell Dr. Meadowlark, and we’ll add it to the list of symptoms. It’s all okay.”

Genius crinkled his brow, confused, and he started to squirm, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “But… but I was bad. I promised not to break any rules, but then I did, and lying is—lying is like in the top ten. You never manipulate the rules, and you never lie—ever. I did _both_. I didn’t just talk out of turn or throw a tantrum or, or, or wander around unsupervised, Agent Hotchner, I—I was really, really bad.”

Hotch simply shook his head. “Not bad enough to warrant punishment, Genius. You are a good kid, a good genius, and a good member of the team. You do a good job. You made a bad call, and people do that sometimes. Thankfully, nobody got hurt and nothing bad happened because of it. So, now, we move on and learn from this mistake. We aren’t going to beat a dead horse.”

Genius looked down at his hands, picking at his skin relentlessly and then graduating to scratching. “But I…” He chewed on his lip. “So… you aren’t going to do anything to me?”

Hotch shook his head emphatically. “No, Genius, I am not going to do anything to punish you. I will still do things to you, but they will mostly involve messing up your hair and bringing you food.”

Genius giggled softly, and Hotch’s humorous attitude seemed to put a lighter atmosphere in the room. “I… I will try very hard not to do it again.”

“Good. You should try hard not to lie to me. But if you do—if you make that bad decision again—just tell me. Everything will be okay if you tell me.” Hotch smiled, tousling Genius’ hair just as he said he would.

Genius leaned into the touch, and a soft smile lingered on his lips. “I… I have to stay here alone, don’t I?”

“I would like you to try,” was Hotch’s simple response. “If you need me to come back, you can call me, but I am giving you permission to be unsupervised.”

Genius pressed his lips together, nodded a few times, and then crawled onto the bed, flopping down next to Hotch’s jacket and bag. “Thank you for letting me come back here to sleep.”

“You’re welcome,” Hotch said softly, placing the keycard on the desk and tucking the spare into his pocket. “I’m going to put a twenty here, and you are welcome to use it to get something from the vending machine or the café downstairs.”

Genius smiled sleepily, a little giggle rising in his throat. “Thank you, Agent Hotchner.” He giggled again. “It’s like I’m… a little kid again. My mom sometimes thought the government was watching our house, so… we would pack our bags and travel between hotels for a week or two. I hated… hated to see her so upset, but… it was also a lot of fun. Sometimes, I would talk her into having fun with me… and it seemed to help her forget for a little while. Not… not very long, but… still…”

Hotch smiled and patiently waited for the story to end, making a mental note to schedule some leisure time with Genius. He really should get to know the person he was putting his job on the line for.

Not that it would make a difference.”

“I’m glad you’re having good memories, Genius. I have to go back to the station now, and you can call me there if you need anything.” Hotch picked up his jacket and slipped it on, heading toward the door. “When we get back to Quantico, we should go for coffee or ice cream sometime. I would love to hear more stories about you and your mom.”

Genius mumbled a reply, but he was quickly fading into sleep. “I can tell you all about Las Vegas… and the stories Mom used to read to me… and Mom’s sneakiness… how she got me into high school without letting anyone find out… mmm, was a genius… and sooo many more… so many stories…”

Hotch chuckled softly and let himself out, hoping his lack of a reply would help Genius’ brain to tumble headlong into much needed sleep. He, on the other hand, was left in a silence that let him dwell on the jarring conversation he had just had.

_I know the guards have stun guns—all prison guards do—but they aren’t for lying or manipulating a situation. They’re for violence against other prisoners, prison workers, or themselves._

Not that it was all that devastating, like a taser or tear gas. Everyone in law enforcement was required to get, for lack of a better word, zapped, so they would know exactly what they were inflicting when they used it. Hotch had done it to himself more than once for various reasons, and he stayed standing and conscious and in control of his body.

But _still._

For _lying?_

Hotch had made it to the bottom of the steps outside the hotel when his phone rang.

“Hello?” he answered, having ignored the caller ID.

“Hey.” It was Rossi. “We’re about to hit the streets and spread the word about this guy, try to find out who’s seen him and get some information. Where are you?”

“I’m at the hotel, but I know where you’re headed. I’ll meet you there.”

“Got it.”

Hotch snapped his phone shut and let out a heavy sigh.

_How is it possible for my brain to be this overwhelmed when I’m not even doing anything?_

Once they closed the case, he would hopefully get a chance to sit down with their new section chief. Hopefully, she would understand the stress his team was being put under and grant them the office hours they needed. Hopefully, she wouldn’t micromanage or be too nosy, and Hotch would be able to continue his investigation into ICAP. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have a problem with Genius. Hopefully, they weren’t going home to even more stress.

Hopefully.


	8. Chapter 8

“There’s so many.”

Emily glanced over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t needed elsewhere, and then she lowered herself to the cement floor next to Genius. She crossed her legs and stared at the collection of shoes with him, a heavy weight settling in her stomach.

“Yeah…” she started. “There’s got to be at least a hundred.”

“Ninety-two.” Genius wrapped his arms a little tighter around himself and drew his knees toward his chest. “Ninety-two pairs of shoes.”

Emily nodded her head slowly and put her hands in her lap, not entirely sure what to do next. She interacted with Genius the least of everyone on the team, and despite their shared understanding of the benefit to that, the result was her not knowing what kind of comfort he needed.

“I read the numbers all the time.” Genius continued to stare dead ahead, eyes vacant. “If I compiled all the victims from all the cases I solved while in ICAP, it would come to 2,274. This is nothing compared to that, but… but it’s _different._ ” His voice dropped to a whisper. “These aren’t numbers, Agent Prentiss.”

Emily pressed her lips into a thin line and looked around the room. _No, they’re not._ She looked back at him. _He has an eidetic memory. I can’t make him forget this, and it won’t go away on its own. So… I have to rewrite what the image means to him._ She looked around the room again, spying the almost-victim’s sneakers, and she quickly got to her feet.

“Agent Prentiss?”

Emily didn’t respond. She pulled a glove from her pocket and slipped it on, grabbing the shoes from the floor. She returned to Genius, sat back down, and put the sneakers on the floor in front of him.

“These belong to Maggie. She could have been another victim, but she wasn’t.” Emily nodded to the rest of the shoes. “Those are a memorial. But these?” She tapped the ones in front of them. “These are a trophy. Memorials are good, and they have their place, but trophies are the things you want to remember.”

Genius tilted his head to the side slightly, leaning forward to get a closer look. “Why doesn’t it feel the same?”

Emily gave him a questioning look, uncertain as to whether he meant numbers versus shoes or memorials versus trophies.

“Why… does it hurt so much to fail people but only feel half as good to save them?”

Emily heaved a sigh and shook her head, eyes lingering on the matted laces. “I don’t know, Genius. It’s something you have to train yourself to feel, I guess.”

Genius nodded a few times, slowly, his mind far afield.

“Come on,” she coaxed, getting to her feet. “Let’s get back to the station and pack up.”

Genius nodded again, but he didn’t move, still sitting and staring at the shoes like he was waiting for them to do something; like he thought they could somehow fix the sick feeling he got from looking at the footwear of nearly one hundred people who had been dismembered alive and washed down a drain.

Emily crouched back down and grabbed one of the shoes, pulling the shoelace free one hole at a time. She occasionally glanced up to see if Genius had snapped out of his trance, but when she saw he hadn’t, she continued her work, pulling until the string was completely free.

“Here.” She spoke before she touched his arm, not wanting to startle him, and then she started to wrap the lace around his wrist. “I’ll buy Maggie a new pair. I want you to have this.”

Genius frowned slightly and stared at his wrist in bewilderment. “Isn’t this evidence?”

“Nah.” Well, it was, but they didn’t really need it. No one to arrest, no one to convict, plenty of untainted shoes to collect and examine… and Genius needed that shoelace.

Emily only hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite her.

“There. Is that too tight?”

Genius flexed his hand a bit and looked at the makeshift bracelet, the faintest of smiles pulling at the corner of his mouth. “It’s perfect.” His eyes still swam with confusion, misted over but not quite tearful.

“I know it’s hard.” Emily offered a small smile. “I know the team will offer all the help they can. But you carry that with you, okay? You carry the victories and leave the losses in the evidence room. Look at that every day and remind yourself that someone out there is alive and breathing because of what we did here. There are a lot of people dead, and that’s the unsub’s fault. But Maggie being alive? We can take credit for that one. We can, and we will.”

Genius looked down at the string again, and then he allowed himself another small smile. He got up and dusted off his pants, one hand wrapping around the decorated wrist and immediately fingering the fibers.

“Thank you, Agent Prentiss.”

Emily gave him a smile and a nod of acknowledgement, a silent ‘you’re welcome’ jumping the gap between them. Genius turned to look at the exit, and the second he heard Morgan’s voice, he was walking away.

As Emily stood and watched him leave, she couldn’t help but anticipate the day when she wouldn’t have to keep her distance.

* * *

“So, um, did you get to talk to the new section chief?”

Hotch glanced up from the dessert menu and smiled lightly. “Yes. Delilah West. She said she would look at our caseload and pull some strings to lighten it, but it might take a while. She’s still orienting herself with the new department, and she’s apparently keeping tabs on the one she left.”

“She sounds busy.” Genius sipped his hot chocolate and hummed, a curious expression twisting his features. “What department did she come from?”

“Organized Crime.” Hotch glanced at his menu again, finally deciding what he wanted, and then he set it aside. “She’s a big supporter of permanent genius placement. She loves the room we made you, and she isn’t going to do anything to interrupt your appointments with Dr. Meadowlark. She likes having you here with us.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Genius gave a quick smile and huge sigh of relief, and then he sipped his drink again.

Hotch kept his lips turned up in the corners, hoping to ease the subtle tension between them. Genius was clearly unsettled by the idea of being somewhere that was not a federal building for something other than shopping or a case.

“Do you like your hot chocolate?”

Genius smiled and nodded his head. “Yeah, it’s great, um, thank you.”

Hotch mimicked his expression and gesture. “You’re welcome.”

Genius put his attention back on his cup and took another sip.

Hotch waved a waitress over and ordered chocolate cake for both of them—he thought it best if he made the decisions until Genius was more comfortable—and then Hotch was ready for more conversation.

Genius, on the other hand, was staring through the window to his right, gaze wandering from place to place with no apparent rhyme or reason.

“I guess it’s been a while since you’ve been outside.”

Genius jumped and looked at Hotch like a deer in the headlights. “Uh, um, yeah. November 12th, 1993. I’ve seen a lot of… new things.”

Hotch laughed at that. “I bet. Let’s see… 1993. Well, there was Waco, of course. Everyone remembers Waco. Did you know Agent Rossi was there?”

Genius stared with wide eyes, blinking twice. “No. I… I didn’t even think about it. I… do you think I could ask him sometime? I always… had some questions… it was impossible to get reliable, unbiased information at the time.”

“I think Rossi would be fine with that.” Hotch drummed his fingers on the table and looked out the window, his expression growing thoughtful. “Hmm… what else happened in 1993…?” he trailed off, waiting for Genius’ love of trivia to kick in.

“That was the year women were allowed to join the Air Force.” Genius sipped his drink again, his eyes becoming a little more focused. “There was also The Great Flood of 1993. Uh, The West Memphis Three Murders. I still think they arrested the wrong people, and it definitely wasn’t a satanic ritual.” He rolled his eyes. “A Unabomber injured a computer scientist at Yale. I always wanted to go to Yale, so I kept up to date with anything that went on over there, even as a kid.” He stopped to take a drink and a quick breath, glancing only briefly at the food that was set in front of him. “Whatever happened with the Y2K problem?”

Hotch chuckled and waved it off, picking up his fork. “It resolved itself, by and large. Changes still had to be made, but it was hardly the doomsday disaster they predicted.”

Genius smiled crookedly. “I’ll have to read more about that. Uh, if I’m allowed, I mean.”

“You’re allowed.” Hotch started to eat, silently giving Genius the stage a second time.

“Thank you.” Genius smiled to himself. “I, uh…” He sobered slightly. “I think the last thing I remember—the last big thing, I mean—was the wildfires in California. They started the day before my birthday, and… Mom was pretty freaked out.” He poked at his chocolate cake. “We were separated less than a month later.”

Hotch nodded sympathetically, still eating, and then he remembered something from Kansas City. “Mmm.” He held up a finger, taking a few seconds to chew and swallow. “You said you were going to tell me how your mom got you into high school when you were twelve without exposing you as a genius.”

Genius drank the last of his hot chocolate and picked up a fork, approaching the food with a little more enthusiasm in his movements than before. “Basically, it all came down to hiding my age. Not that that was easy by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, I look like I’m a kid now, and I’m twenty-four. I was one scrawny middle schooler, and we had to somehow convince a board of directors I was eighteen.”

Hotch frowned slightly, licking his fork. “Why eighteen?”

Genius shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t want to sit through four years of pretending to learn stuff I already knew. I just needed was a diploma, and getting one through homeschooling required an evaluator, so that wasn’t going to happen. Homeschooling pretty much stapled the word ‘genius’ to your forehead, especially when it comes to graduation you don’t look old enough for.” He thought about that for a moment and then shrugged. “Either way, Mom and I worked together to falsify all kinds of document. Transcripts, notes from past teachers, school records from a school that didn’t actually exist, medical records explaining my physical shortcomings as a neurological disorder we made up…” He laughed to himself and put another forkful of cake into his mouth. “We even made up some research about the fake medical condition in case they decided to dig a little deeper. It was fun.” He paused. “It was one of the last things we did together.”

Hotch heard a certain melancholy slip into Genius’ tone, but he didn’t change the subject. He let silence hang for a while, electing not to press the topic, but also wanting to make sure Genius didn’t have anything else he wanted or needed to say.

“But, um… yeah, anyway. We faked a bunch of papers, basically.” Genius smiled briefly and then got back to his food, his shoulders slouching slightly.

Hotch gave a few more seconds of pause, eating his last bite of cake. “It sounds like you and your mom had a lot of fun.” He put his utensils on his empty plate and leaned back, reaching for his coffee. “Genius, something else happened in Kansas City that we need to talk about.”

Genius blinked in confusion and stared, and while Hotch wasn’t particularly excited about the next portion of their conversation, he was glad the change in topic had Genius distracted.

“I need to talk to you about…”

How exactly was he supposed to word it?

“…punishment.”

Awkward.

Genius tensed up and turned wide eyes to Hotch. “But that was years ago, Agent Hotchner. I haven’t fa—”

Hotch quickly shook his head to cut Genius off. “No, no, you’re not in trouble. I just need to talk to you about your expectations.” He struggled for a moment. “You were… well, you were ready to bend over and take a beating for a very minor transgression.” Hotch cleared his throat. “So, I need you to tell me how you were punished at ICAP. That way, I can tell you what to expect in the future.”

Genius chewed and swallowed, nodding uncertainly. “Okay. Um… I mean, what do you want to know? I can recite the rules.”

Hotch shook his head with a soft smile. “We don’t need to play by those rules anymore.” He took another sip of his drink and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and lowering his voice. “Just tell me how you were punished. Severity, frequency… things like that. Nobody will hear you in here, especially if you talk like I’m talking now.”

Genius squirmed a little and took another bite, no doubt using the food as an excuse not to talk right away. He swallowed and cleared his throat, looking down at his plate. “Um… well, I didn’t get punished too much. I told you it’s been a while since…” He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders. “I mostly get—got—in trouble for talking too much, and… um… s-stealing books from the library. Um, sometimes I would fight going back to my room, and a few times I made a light to read by and used it after lights out. Mostly, uh, mostly talking and books, though.”

Hotch nodded and kept silent, patiently waiting for more information.

“Um, when I was little, they mostly spanked me or hit my knuckles. Just, y’know, with a ruler.” Genius shrugged again and took another bite of his food, keeping his eyes downcast. “Um, I got older, and they started using a belt. If I was disrespectful, they would smack me. Um, in the face, I mean. It didn’t happen too often, but…”

 _It happened often enough that he asked if he should sit so I could reach his face more easily._ Hotch kept that thought to himself, though, and nodded to show Genius he understood the unspoken words.

“They use stun guns if you get too close to other geniuses, guards, supply closets... basically anything that looks like you might be passing or receiving supplies and information you’re not supposed to have. They’ll also use it if you start a fight or try to escape.” Genius scraped the last of the cake and licked his fork clean, setting the utensils. “It’s just a little shock to discourage misbehaving. It’s not _too_ bad, but… well, it’s worse than the other punishments, and it sticks around for a little while. So, um, I don’t really like it.”

Hotch nodded again and took Genius’ plate, stacking it on top of his own and placing both at the end of the table. “You want a refill on your drink?”

Genius nodded, chewing on his lip. “Yes, please.”

Hotch smiled, pleased to see he didn’t have to assure Genius it was alright. It was taking time—they all knew it would—but Genius was slowly getting better at accepting gifts and trusting there were no punishments or ulterior motives at play. He hadn’t scratched his arms during their conversation, either, and while Hotch was certain Genius was tearing up his pantleg, it was still improvement.

Hotch flagged their waitress down and asked for refills, and then he got back to the conversation. “So, let’s talk about the here and now.”

Genius nodded a bit nervously, wide eyes swimming with uncertainty.

“I will never use a stun gun on you, Genius. No one on the team will use a stun gun on you. If anyone ever tries to use a stun gun on you, tell them I will have their badge.” Hotch created his sentences with extreme precision as he continued, knowing exactly what exaggeration with a word like ‘never’ could do to someone with severe trust issues. “I… think it is very unlikely that I will need to use corporal punishment on you. If it becomes necessary, it would be because you did something along the lines of what you did with Owen Savage. Directly disobeying an order, putting yourself in danger, putting others in danger, and things that run along that level of severity.”

Genius nodded slightly, and both men paused as their refills were delivered.

“Thanks.” Hotch waited until the waitress left to continue. “I am the only one who will have the authority to do that to you, understand?”

Genius nodded obediently. “Yes, sir.”

Hotch made eye contact and repeated himself anyway, wanting Genius to be perfectly clear on that point above all others. “I mean it, Genius. No one else. If someone tries to punish you in any way physically, you come to me. Even if you think you deserved it, even if you _know_ you deserved it, even if they outrank me. I am the only one who is allowed to discipline you physically. Period.”

Genius frowned, clearly confused, and he squirmed uncomfortably. “You… like hitting me?”

Hotch couldn’t help the surge of frustration and guilt, but he didn’t let it show and simply shook his head. “No, Genius, not at all. But I don’t want anyone, not even my teammates, to have that power over you. If anyone can discipline you, they will do so based on their rules. How are you supposed to know what the rules are and what will happen when you break them if everyone handles it differently?”

Genius looked down at his lap, lips pursed in contemplation, and then he started to nod. “That makes sense. Solidarity and consistency are easy to follow and keep things organized.” He looked back up. “Right?”

Hotch nodded to confirm the accuracy, but then he took it a step further. “It will also help you to feel safe. It isn’t fair to give you rules you can’t follow and inflict consequences you can’t predict. My hope is to remove some of your anxiety by giving you a more stable set of guidelines.”

Genius blinked a few times, eyes moistening as a smile pulled at his lips. “O-oh. That’s nice.”

_Being cared about? Yes, that generally feels nice._

Hotch gave a light smile to assure Genius kindness was the motive, and then he continued. “Now, the rest of the team will have authority to take privileges away. They can take your MP3 player temporarily—we will never take it from you permanently—or give you extra desk work. They will always report back to me so we can make sure you don’t get punished twice for the same offense.”

Genius smiled a little wider and sipped his drink, blinking rapidly with a quiet sniff

Hotch continued gently. “If we are in a situation where I need to make you behave immediately, I will correct you verbally, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll smack your behind. I don’t think I will need to hit your knuckles, and I am going to do everything I can to avoid hitting your face.”

Genius frowned, clearly confused. “Why?”

Hotch kept his expression ever-understanding, his voice soft. “There are a few reasons. One, it will hurt more than me smacking your behind. Second, I can’t be discreet about smacking your face, and I don’t want to embarrass you.” Ironic, given the alternative method he would be using, but true all the same. “Third, the skin of your face is thinner, more sensitive, and stretched over bone rather than muscle and fat, meaning it would be easier to accidentally hurt you. It would leave easily visible marks. Again, I don’t want to embarrass you. Fourth, if you move or my aim is off, smacking your face could result in me hitting your ears, nose, mouth, eyes, and so on. Fifth, it’s frightening to have something fly at your face suddenly.” He paused to take a drink and then tried to summarize his message. “Essentially, smacking you on the behind rather than the face is to avoid hurting or humiliating you when all I want to do is gently correct you.”

Genius looked at him for a long time, fresh tears welling up in his eyes, and he sniffed softly. He fumbled with his napkin and blew his nose, sniffing again and wiping at his eyes. “You’re so good to me, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch only smiled, his heart breaking for what had to be the thousandth time since Genius came into his life. “I am only treating you with the respect and care you deserve. I know you don’t completely understand that, and that’s okay, but you need to know you’ve gone too long without fair treatment, and everyone on the team is working to fix that.”

Genius sniffed softly and looked down at his drink. He took a sip and swallowed hard, a soft smile pulling at his lips when he whispered, “If you want… every now and then… you can use my name.”

Hotch was surprised, but he made sure to keep a smile on his face. “I would like that. Thank you for giving me permission… Spencer.”

* * *

Michael Evans wasn’t supposed to be a runner.

He was just a simply, twenty-nine-year-old delivery guy who drove a truck for Medical Supply Depot. Hotch and JJ only went to his house to ask him some questions about the deliveries and pickups he did; he ran the ICAP route more than any other employee, so he made the most sense. His criminal record held a whopping two charges of vandalism from his teenage days; he was hardly violent.

He wasn’t supposed to be a runner.

 _I guess he didn’t get the memo._ Hotch wasn’t about to waste air complaining, so he grumbled in thought and spirit only. _Sure, run right through bushes with the burs on them. I didn’t like this suit, anyway. I do, however, like chasing people through the woods, so you are making my day right now._

“Mr. Evans!” JJ called.

Hotch finally got close enough to grab Michael by the shoulder, and then both of them were tumbling head over heels into the grass. Hotch wound up on top, and JJ trained her gun on Michael.

“Mr. Evans, calm _down_ ,” Hotch ordered.

“She’s not even here anymore, okay?” Michael shouted, and though he wasn’t struggling anymore, he spat in the dirt to show his displeasure. “Screw you for coming after her, anyway.”

Hotch furrowed his brow, confused, but he didn’t ease up on the pressure. “Mr. Evans, I think you’re confused. If you—”

“Why else would you be here?” Michael—a redhead who clearly embraced his gingerism—glared over his shoulder with fire in his eyes.

JJ answered that, keeping her gun ready but lowering it somewhat. “You drive a truck for MSD. We have some questions about ICAP as well as the runs you do for them.”

Michael threw his head back, but Hotch was quicker and avoided the blow.

“I knew it.” Michael spat again. “Whatever. I told you, she’s not here.”

Hotch eased up slightly. “Mr. Evans, we don’t want to fight, we just want to talk. If I let you up, do you think you could behave civilly long enough for a conversation? Because we are still, clearly, miscommunicating.”

Michael glared at him for a moment, but then he offered a slight nod.

Hotch let go of Michael’s arms and stood up, reaching out a hand to help him while JJ holstered her weapon.

Michael ignored the offered hand and got to his feet, dusting off his stained, neon yellow cutoff. “You have questions, suit?”

Hotch glanced at JJ, their eyes meeting for a split second.

“Yes.” Hotch walked a few paces to the right and leaned against a tree, drawing Michael’s attention to himself. “I want details about what you ship to and from ICAP.”

“I don’t ship nothin’. I drive a truck.” Michael spat onto the dirt again.

Hotch straightened up and put his hands on his hips, making sure to display his sidearm—something that would definitely make Michael focus on him. “You also load and unload that truck. You’ve seen labels and boxes and crates, which is more than I have, so talk.”

“You want to know what kind of boxes they ship?” Michael crossed his arms over his chest, responding to the threat by puffing himself up, as Hotch knew he would. “Go ask them. They’re part of the FBI, right?”

“That would take more time than I’m willing to invest,” Hotch lied.

“Really?” Michael’s eyebrows shot up, calloused hands gesturing to the area around them. “I live in a trailer park ‘bout as far from the city as you can get, and you thought comin’ out here would be faster than a phone call? You and—” Michael stopped suddenly.

_He realized._

“Hey, where’s the other one? Where’s the lady that was with you?” Michael turned in a tight circle, but JJ was long gone.

“She went to see whose escape you were distracting us from.” Hotch took a step just as Michael sprinted, raising his voice enough to be heard. “Mr. Evans, we really do just want to talk. Running will only give us probable cause to search you and your house without a warrant, and I don’t think you want that.”

Michael didn’t stop, and Hotch quickly ran after him, swallowing his frustration.

_I guess this is technically good news. He knows something about something._

It took less than a minute for the trailer to come back in sight, and Hotch saw JJ standing in front of their SUV with a woman in handcuffs.

“Julia!”

“Mr. Evans!” Hotch barked, unable to close the remaining distance between them. “Stop right now, or I will arrest you both!”

Not that he had anything to charge them with, but…

Michael skidded to a stop and heaved a sigh, lifting his hands above his head. “Alright, alright. Nobody needs to go to jail.” He spat into the gravel.

Hotch came up behind Michael but didn’t cuff him, nodding in the direction of the woman with JJ. “Is this who you were talking about?” he asked, moving where Michael could see him. “Because we aren’t looking for her.”

Michael looked at him with skeptical eyes, but there was a spark of hope hidden in the shades of green. He cautiously lowered his arms. “You’re not?”

“No. But, now that we know there are unusual circumstances, we do need to hear more about her. JJ, uncuff her.” Hotch looked at Julia while he waited.

He looked at her wild eyes, poorly cut hair, and dirty clothes; he looked at the fear and anger and confusion.

Hotch turned his attention to Michael. “Tell us what happened.”

Michael let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his head. “I don’t normally mess with the stuff, you know? Curiosity killed the cat n’ all. I drive, I unload, I load, I drive, and I unload again. But ICAP sends weird stuff, you know? It all goes to this big, chemical waste facility upstate, and most of it _is_ biohazard stuff.” His lips twisted, clearly disturbed by something, and he spat again. “It ain’t always normal, though. Sometimes, they send other things. Sometimes, it’s big boxes, metal on the outside, kinda shaped like a coffin. That’s the only reason I even looked; they were just creepy, you know?”

Hotch kept his outward expression neutral, but inwardly, he scowled. He didn’t like where the story was going.

“I’ve been driving for MSD for about five years, and this month, man… ICAP used to send a biggie every once in a great while. Twice a year, tops. But I had one earlier this month, and I got another one Thursday, so when I got _another_ one on Friday… well, I couldn’t help myself, you know?”

_Yes, we know._

Michael gestured to Julia, who was rubbing her wrists and staring at the ground. “It was… well, her. Julia was in there, knocked out, and I guess I panicked. I got her out, closed the box, and made the delivery like usual. Then I brought her home with me. My girlfriend was…” he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Well, she left Saturday night, and I didn’t go in to work today, so when I heard you guys…”

JJ nodded her head, filling in the blank. “You thought someone found out what you did.”

“Or that your girlfriend told.” Hotch pressed his lips together and glanced at Julia. “Julia, can you tell us why you were—”

“Oh, uh, she can’t talk,” Michael interrupted. “She’s teachin’ me sign language, and she writes me notes. But she won’t talk about ICAP. She won’t even tell me how she got in the box or why. Just says she never wants to go back, and that they’re gonna come get her.” He spat again and looked at Hotch. “She said something about… selective mutism?”

Hotch nodded his head. “It’s when people become mute only in certain situations or succeeding traumatization.” He looked at JJ, but there was nothing in her eyes to indicate mistrust of the situation. “Have you ever seen anything to indicate human cargo before?”

Michael shook his head, slipping his hands into the pockets of his worn, faded jeans. “Nope. If somethin’ else caught my eye, it was probably locked up tight. Seems weird to lock up trash, you know? But I never got curious enough. I figured the locks were there for a reason.” He held up a finger. “I will say this, though. They were some crazy locks.”

JJ frowned slightly. “Crazy how?”

“Just… complicated. My daddy was a locksmith, you know? It wasn’t my thing, but he taught me just ‘bout everything he knew. I ain’t never seen locks like those.” He spat to the side again, reaching up to scratch his stubble. “If I had the right tools, I could’a picked’em. They had the same basic concepts, you know? Same mechanism, different casing, repeated way more times than necessary.” He shook his head. “Part of me is glad I didn’t mess with’em…” He shrugged and looked down, spitting again. “Part of me wishes I’da checked sooner. Don’t know what happened to those other big boxes, don’t know what was in the locked ones…”

“You helped Julia.” JJ spoke with enough sincerity for both of them. “You were just doing your job, and when things got too unusual for comfort, you investigated. That’s more than most people would do.”

Michael shrugged his shoulders but didn’t say anything.

Hotch cleared his throat. “Before we ask any more about your deliveries, can you tell us Julia’s GID? We’re working on a… theory of sorts.”

“Her what?”

“Genius Identification,” Hotch explained. “It’s an eleven-digit number.”

Michael pursed his lips and looked at Julia. “Uh… Jules?”

Julia didn’t look up, but she held her hands out and used her fingers to relay the number.

7…7…9…8…1…3…3…4…3…8…2…

Hotch smiled tightly at her. “Thank you, Julia.”

Julia didn’t acknowledge him, and her eyes never left the ground.

_Another forty-three eighty number. Another genius who looks more like a trauma victim than a threat. Another outsider who takes one look at a genius and knows something is wrong._

Because, honestly, that was the strangest part. Michael had known Julia for less than twenty-four hours, but when his girlfriend left, he didn’t kick Julia out to get her back. He stayed home from work—a job where he made good money and was well-liked—to take care of her. He ran from, tried to distract, and lied to federal agents.

Hotch had taken similarly drastic measures after being exposed to Genius, and he knew most people would say that was just what made geniuses so dangerous, but Hotch knew better. Genius and Julia weren’t manipulating anyone, there was just something so desperate and afraid and _broken_ about them that anyone with the slightest pinch of protective instinct couldn’t let them go.

“You got more questions?”

Hotch snapped himself from his thoughts. “Yes. Do you remember what was with Julia in the box when you found her?”

“Well, there was some kinda blanket. Real thick, leathery on the one side…”

* * *

Morgan didn’t know what to do.

He had only entered the room to ask Genius for an opinion on a case report. He didn’t expect to find Genius curled up in bed under a mountain of blankets, hiding his face in his pillow and crying his eyes out.

“Kid?” Morgan set the file on the nearby dresser and walked to the bed, reaching out to cautiously touch a shoulder. “Hey, Pretty Boy, look at me.”

Genius lifted his head and turned toward Morgan, his once-hazel eyes red and tearful. He had to have been crying for a while, given how raw his face was, and Morgan didn’t like the thought of it going on any longer.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Morgan spoke softly, crouching down by the bed. “Come on, Pretty Boy, tell me what happened.”

Genius shook his head a few times, still sobbing silently, and then he slowly opened his mouth. “I can’t… I just…”

Morgan tilted his head and leaned forward, trying to show Genius the undivided attention he was being given. “It’s okay, kid, you can tell me.”

Genius dragged his arm over his eyes. “I just… I got really sad all of a sudden. I… I started missing my mom, and then… well, then I couldn’t stop crying, and I got scared. I thought—I knew someone would figure it out, and I don’t—” he choked out another sob and screwed his eyes shut. “I don’t want to go back on Seroquel, Morgan. I want to keep decreasing it, and I know this isn’t a mood swing, but I know nobody will believe me, and I just…” Genius dissolved back into tears and once again hid in his pillow.

Morgan let out a soft sigh and started rubbing Genius’ back. _This poor kid… He can’t even have a bad day without going half out of his mind with fear…_

Morgan gave Genius a shake. “Hey, Pretty Boy.”

Genius turned his head to look at Morgan, but his face was still half-buried in the pillow.

“I believe you.” Morgan offered him a small smile but then returned to a sober expression, not wanting Genius to think he was offering platitudes. “I believe you, Pretty Boy, and I think Hotch will, too. And maybe I’ll regret this, but if you don’t want to tell anyone, you don’t have to. It can be our secret, we’ll get you cleaned up quick, and if anyone says anything, I’ll cover for you.”

Genius sniffed and wiped his eyes again. “Really?” For a moment, there was hope, but then he shook his head. “No, I can’t. I can’t. I lied to Agent Hotchner about a symptom already, and he—he said I can’t do that. I have to…” He sniffed, then blinked, and that flicker of hope returned. “Could—could you tell him for me? Maybe… maybe you can tell him… that it’s not a mood swing?”

Morgan nodded. “Yeah.” He smiled. “Yeah, of course I can do that.”

“Morgan, will you t—tell me? Before you do it, I mean? So I can… y’know, get ready?” Genius slowly propped himself up, coming out of his cocoon of blankets, but he was still a nervous wreck. “Please?”

Morgan stood up and gestured for Genius to move a little, seating himself on the bed next to Genius once there was space. “How about I call him now? We’ll get it out of the way, and you don’t have to sit here freaking out about it.”

Genius swallowed hard, and though he seemed hesitant, he nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

Morgan smiled encouragingly and pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his contacts until he found Hotch. He hit the green button to dial and waited, silent and calm.

Genius was the exact opposite, fidgeting and whimpering and watching Morgan with frantic eyes. He spent the ten second wait in what looked like agony to Morgan.

“Hotchner.”

“Hey, Hotch, it’s Morgan.”

“Morgan, what’s up?”

Morgan glanced at Genius with another comforting smile. “I’m here with Pretty Boy, and he’s having a pretty rough day. He got sad all of a sudden, but we don’t think it’s a mood swing. He was kind of afraid to tell you because he doesn’t want to increase his Seroquel, but he also said you specifically told him not to lie about symptoms, so he asked me to call for him.”

Genius was practically shaking on the bed next to him, his whole body rigid.

“Morgan, can you put me on speaker?”

“Yup.” Morgan pulled the phone away from his ear and did just that, looking at Genius with reassurance in his eyes.

Genius stared at the phone like it was a bomb.

“Genius?” Hotch questioned, his voice slightly distorted.

“Y-yes, sir?”

“We’re going to make a note of your mood today just to keep track, but you are not increasing your Seroquel because of this.”

Genius heaved a sigh of relief, and Morgan felt a twist in his gut. Genius looked like the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders, and dang it, it wasn’t supposed to be that much of a relief to know you weren’t going to have to take medicine.

“Thank you, Agent Hotchner!”

“You don’t have to thank me. I am not bending any rules or covering for you. I genuinely believe you don’t need to be on a higher dose of Seroquel.” He paused for half a second—or maybe his voice cut out, Morgan didn’t know—and his tone was exceptionally warm when he spoke again. “You did the right thing by telling me the truth, Spencer, and it’s okay that you needed help from Morgan. I am very, very proud of you.”

Genius beamed. He glowed, almost literally, like he could light up the entire room with his smile. “Um—I—I—well, good, I… I’m glad I did it right. I, um… just thank you… for believing me and…”

Morgan smiled and waited a few seconds, but when it was obvious Genius couldn’t find his words, Morgan took the phone off speaker and put it to his ear. “Thanks, Hotch.”

“Sure. Is everything still quiet at the office?”

Morgan laughed. “Just mountains of paperwork, man. Enjoy your day off, and give Jack a hug for me.”

Hotch chuckled softly on the other end. “Will do. Bye, Morgan.”

“Bye.” Morgan snapped his phone shut and looked at Genius with a smile. “See? Hotch understands, and we’re all good.”

Genius gave him a smile, but it was weak, and his eyes had started to tear up again. “Thanks, Morgan. I… just thanks.”

Morgan frowned slightly. “Hey… what’s the matter?”

Genius shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. I—I really appreciate your help, you… you made me feel good, but… that doesn’t take away the… the…” He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

Morgan nodded understandingly, a look of revelation crossing his face. “Your depression was making you feel bad, and you got worse because you were afraid we would change your meds, so even though everything is fine now, you still feel bad because of the depression. Right?”

Genius smiled sheepishly. “Yeah. Yeah, you…” He smiled a little wider and ducked his head. “You got it. I’m glad you understand. Most… most people don’t.”

Morgan reached out and put a hand on the back of Genius’ neck, massaging it a few times. “It’s gonna be okay, kid. I’m here for you.” He gave Genius another squeeze and got to his feet. “You gonna lay down for a while?”

Genius shook his head rapidly, running a hand through his hair and adjusting his shirt. “No, I can work. I’ll take a Ritalin, and then I can help you with whatever you’re doing.”

Morgan shook his head and held up his hands. “Kid, kid, it’s okay. You don’t have to. It’s just paperwork day. If you feel up to it later, work on some of the reports I gave you, but if you don’t, then just rest, man. Enjoy the break and take care of yourself. Okay?”

“Um, okay, but…” Genius looked over at his desk. “I already finished the reports.”

Morgan followed Genius’ gaze and blinked several times at the stack of at least twenty folders. “Those are done?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Morgan walked over to the desk and looked at the file on top, opening the cover just to take a quick peak inside. There was a post-it note on top detailing what the file needed or already had, and the front page alone was covered in clear, concise writing.

“Great job, Pretty Boy.” Morgan snorted softly at the subtle reminder of just how incredible Genius was. “Seriously, you did great. You definitely deserve a break after you did all this.” He grabbed the files and turned to leave, giving Genius another smile as he passed.

“Uh, M-Morgan?”

Morgan stopped at the dresser and grabbed the file he had left there, turning to look at Genius. “Yeah?”

Genius wet his lips and swallowed hard. “You, uh… you didn’t say anything about… did you notice?”

Morgan frowned slightly. _Did I notice what?_

“I, um… I started… calling you by name… instead of rank and name.” Genius wrung his hands, shoulders hunched slightly. “Is that okay?”

Morgan laughed softly. “Yeah, Pretty Boy, that’s fine. I probably didn’t notice ‘cause I was worried about you.”

Genius tilted his head. “You were worried?”

 _These files are getting heavy._ Morgan shifted the weight but stayed in the doorway. “Sure. I didn’t know what was wrong, and even after you told me, I was more concerned with making you feel better than what you were calling me.”

Genius stared, a flurry of emotions battling for control of his eyes and expression.

“Just get some sleep, Pretty Boy. Maybe you’ll feel better when you get up.”

Genius gave a distracted nod, sinking into the sheets and pulling the covers up to his chin. Morgan smiled and waited until the blankets stopped moving to exit the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Returning to his desk, Morgan plopped the stack of files down and shook his head in disbelief.

Genius was so emotionally twisted up inside, Morgan often forgot what he was truly capable of. His brain worked faster and more intricately than Morgan could even begin to understand, and behind that child-like innocence and gentle personality, there was an arsenal of knowledge and skill.

Briefly Morgan imagined Genius without any unnecessary medications in his system. He imagined Genius feeling comfortable in his environment, living healthier, months after the depression he was battling finally subsided. And for a moment, Morgan thought he could picturing exactly what ICAP was so afraid of.

But Morgan felt nothing even remotely close to fear, only hope and excitement and anticipation. Because Genius _was_ going to get better, and come hell or high water, Derek Morgan would be there to see it.

* * *

“I bet you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you here.”

Morgan couldn’t help but chuckle, and he gave the new section chief several points for humor.

Section Chief Delilah West. She was no older than thirty-five, but from her sharp eyes and confidence alone, it was no surprise to Morgan that she ranked ahead of her age. She was a redhead—word around the bullpen said she lived up to the stereotype—and Morgan couldn’t help but wonder if the glasses resting on her nose were to improve vision or put a barrier between her gaze and innocent bystanders. Morgan had decided he would definitely _not_ want to be on the receiving end of a glare from her.

And yet, despite the image she had to maintain, she was funny.

Morgan could get with that.

“I will let Agent Hotchner explain the situation at hand, but I expect to hear input from everyone, myself included, before this meeting is over.” Delilah reclaimed her seat and immediately picked up a pen, preparing to take notes.

Next to her, Dr. Meadowlark sat with a small stack of files and a notebook of his own, his reading glasses ready and waiting next to his coffee. It was his presence that told Morgan they hadn’t gathered to discuss a new case.

“First,” Hotch started, standing at the head of the table, “I would like to bring Morgan and Emily up to speed. Rossi, JJ, and myself have been—”

“Investigating ICAP?” Morgan interjected, one brow raised. “Yeah, so has Emily.”

Emily looked at him, eyes slightly widened, and Morgan grinned. “Come on, guys. I wasn’t put on this team just because of my good looks.”

Hotch nodded slightly, but there was still a hint of guilt to his features. “We would have told you, but we wanted Genius to have at least one friend without an ulterior motive—even if that motive is for his benefit. Keeping both of you out of the loop gave us some wiggle room.”

“I get it, man.” Morgan shrugged his shoulders. “If I didn’t completely agree with you, I would have said something. It’s all good, man.”

Emily said nothing, but she nodded in agreement.

“Yes, well, things have gotten… complicated… since then.” Hotch inhaled briefly, as if considering how to begin. “We have been investigating Genius and ICAP for about a month. ICAP initially refused to send us any files, but we eventually got them to agree. However, more than two thirds of the information they sent was redacted.” Hotch nodded to Rossi, who sipped his drink and picked up where Hotch left off.

“JJ was able to get the case summaries for cases geniuses worked in the field. Those reports were all submitted by other divisions of the FBI, so ICAP would have to be watching us closely to know we have them. We got records for the last five years, and we started putting those files together, trying to find patterns. Our first person of interest was a genius who worked cases consistently for a full year before dropping off the map a few months before Genius came to work for us.”

“Initially, we didn’t think there was a connection, given the gap between the two events,” JJ interjected, “but we noticed his number ended in 4385. Spencer’s number ends in 4383, and one of the friends he told Hotch about had a number ending in 4381. We thought there might be something to it, so Rossi started digging a little more.”

Hotch leaned on the table, his tone bearing a note of concern only those who knew him well would notice. “Meanwhile, JJ and I started speaking with third party vendors, trying to find someone who might know something helpful.” He straightened up and hit a button on the slideshow remote, pointing to the screen. “This is Michael Evans. Michael drove a truck for Medical Supplies Depot, and he often took biohazardous waste to a disposal facility upstate. On Friday, Michael got curious and opened an exceptionally large box. He found a genius inside.”

Morgan’s stomach twisted at that, an uncomfortable sensation crawling up the back of his neck. _This isn’t just about Pretty Boy. This is big._

“We spoke to Michael and the genius, Julia, three days ago. Early this morning, Michael’s girlfriend reported him missing. There is no sign of Julia anywhere.” Hotch glanced at the screen again. “He gave us the location of the disposal facility before we left, and we’re going to look into it. It should also be mentioned that Julia’s GID ended in 4382.”

“Which brings us back to our mystery genius.” Rossi gestured toward the screen and waited until Hotch had changed it to continue. “Say hello to Ashland Fitzgerald. I managed to strongarm ICAP into giving me the file they put in genius catalogues. It doesn’t tell us all that much, but I couldn’t get anything else out of them. We’ve been playing telephone tag since the Kansas City case, but up until yesterday, nothing I was doing to get information from them was working.”

Emily gave Rossi a cautious look. “What happened yesterday?”

“I decided to recruit Ashland. I called and said we needed him on a case, and they told me Ashland isn’t on duty anymore. There was a mishap in the field, so they benched him, which is why he disappeared four months ago, and they were considering whether or not to put him back in. They decided to retire him and put him in another facility until it’s ‘safe enough’ for him to be in the field.” He actually used air quotes, too.

Hotch took over again. “What we find so interesting is when it happened. Less than twenty-four hours after Rossi told me he was looking at the number sequence, Ashland was relocated. Julia was relocated the next day. Or she was supposed to be, before Michael intervened.”

“I hadn’t requested any files yet—hadn’t even called them.” Rossi took another drink.

Morgan let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his forehead. “You’re saying what I think you’re saying, aren’t you?”

Hotch deadpanned. “If what you think we’re saying is that we have a mole, then yes. We believe it’s someone here in the office, though it doesn’t necessarily have to be an agent.”

“Why here?” Morgan questioned.

“We hadn’t landed yet when Rossi called me. Detective McGee checks out, and there wasn’t anyone else on the plane other than myself, JJ, and Genius.”

Emily nodded a few times. “It has to be someone who heard the conversation from this end.” She frowned then. “That also begs the question of how they knew when to eavesdrop and who to eavesdrop on. If ICAP wasn’t notified when you got the public records, what reason would they have to creep around Rossi’s office?”

Rossi glanced at the screen behind them, scowling slightly. “However it happened, _somebody_ told ICAP I was looking into Ashland, and they had to have been here to know that.”

Hotch exhaled briefly, the beginning of a frustrated sigh, but the air turned into words. “That leaves us pretty much stranded. We can’t speak with Michael or Julia because they’re both missing. We can’t get a hold of Ashland’s files or get into contact with him, and our resources on other, potentially involved geniuses is limited at best.”

Delilah spoke up then, doodling in the margins of her notebook. “That’s where I come in. I can make a more… persuasive demand for the files on Ashland. However, if they are as restricted as Sp—sorry, as Genius’ files, I don’t know how much help that will be. I will also be calling on some favors to see if anyone in another department has voiced concerns about ICAP and been shut down.”

Morgan pursed his lips. “What do we know about Pretty Boy’s other blockmates?”

“I got their numbers from Genius,” JJ started, opening the file in front of her. “I asked him for a list of numbers in chronological order, and he gave me seventy-three names, so I narrowed it down to the last five years. Ashland and Julia both made the list, but it’s been a while since he’s seen either of them. So, I took this list and lined it up with the timeline I created from the case summaries, including only geniuses whose GID ends with a 4380s number.”

Emily whistled. “Do I want to know how long that took?”

“No.” JJ, Hotch, and Rossi replied in perfect unison, and no one else at the table could resist the urge to smile.

“So, JJ, what’d you find?” Morgan asked, lips still turned up in the corner.

JJ held out her hand for the remote and got to her feet, changing the screen. “I found something interesting. Every time a genius was moved out of Spencer’s cell block, another one replaced them within a month. Every time except once.”

JJ pointed to a particular section of the timeline. “Genius wrote that 4381 left July, 1998. 4381 didn’t work any cases while they were away, and then they came back to Genius’ block in December, 2001.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s two and a half years.”

“Exactly.” JJ clicked the button again and there was another change. “During that time, only two geniuses with numbers ending in the 4380s worked on cases. I am currently hounding ICAP for catalog profiles so I can get more information.” She gestured politely to Dr. Meadowlark. “You’re up.”

Meadowlark gave her a bright smile—Morgan couldn’t help but think of the term ‘gentleman’ every time he saw the guy—and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, my findings aren’t nearly as scandalous, but there were some oddities. First, I received a letter from ICAP formally requesting I refer your genius to one of their psychiatrists. It isn’t explicitly stated, but I get the idea they’re willing to pay me for my troubles, if you know what I mean.”

Delilah held up an evidence bag with a piece of paper in it. “Dr. Meadowlark handed that over to me, and because we are officially treating this as a case, we will begin compiling evidence, starting with this.”

Meadowlark waited until she was definitely done to continue. “I got in touch with a few colleagues who work with ICAP. They changed the subject every time I mentioned ICAP or geniuses, and one of them told me, and I quote, ‘You should pass the genius on to someone else. Trust me, you’re better off not knowing what goes on in their brains.’” Meadowlark sniffed. “I was quite offended, to be honest.”

Morgan smiled slightly.

Emily leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “So… what are we saying? This isn’t just a mole theory, this is a full-blown conspiracy theory.”

Delilah nodded with a solemn expression, her eyes going as dark as her lipstick. “I think we all know what we’re getting into. I don’t know when Erin will be back, but I am keeping her updated, and I don’t intend to leave until I can hand this position over to her directly. I will do what I can to protect you from repercussions, but we have to tread very, very carefully. ICAP has the jurisdiction on geniuses. Honestly, I’m not sure why they haven’t taken Genius by force, though I suspect it has something to do with Agent Hotchner’s death glare.”

There was a brief moment of laughter, but Delilah was quick to draw everyone back to the matter at hand, all humor immediately gone from her tone.

“Agent Hotchner is the one who started digging, and other people have slowly gotten involved. If ICAP hasn’t taken Genius back, I have to assume it’s because they would prefer Agent Hotchner keep this case a slow-growing hobby. They won’t do anything to give him a reason to make more noise than he’s making now. I also think that’s why you do, eventually, get the files you request. Delayed and altered, to be sure, but ICAP keeps giving you bits and pieces to keep you from doing anything drastic. It’s an advantage for us, but again, we have to be very careful. I cannot stress that enough.”

Hotch turned to Emily and nodded toward the center of the table. “Prentiss, did you find something other than what we’ve covered?”

Emily nodded. “You guys found a lot more than I did, but I did pursue a side investigation you didn’t. ICAP keeps geniuses with psychosis in a facility in Colorado, so I called them up. They wouldn’t give me any records on Genius or his mom, but they _did_ confirm Genius had been there several years ago. I didn’t think it was significant until I saw JJ’s timeline.”

Everyone stared expectantly.

“Genius was at ICAP Sanitarium from July to November of 2001.”

Everyone looked at the timeline in unison, feeling the urge to doublecheck the connection they had just made.

“Right at the end of the unexplained gap,” Hotch mumbled.

“We have to talk to the genius who came right after Pretty Boy got back.” Morgan drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Yeah, we should talk to the two who worked in the gap, but whoever 4381 is, they can give us the best before and after picture.”

Rossi and JJ both started sifting through the files they had.

“I think it’s one of Spencer’s friends, actually.” JJ kept flipping through, mumbling. “Where are you? Hmm… They showed up earlier on Genius’ timeline, too, back in ’95. I think—there.”

Morgan leaned forward slightly. “Who is it?”

“Oh, I remember her.” JJ nudged Hotch on the arm. “She caught my eye because you said about wanting your own personal TAD.”

Hotch looked at Delilah immediately. “I was joking, of course. I’m aware of the budget.”

Delilah only smirked, and Morgan honestly didn’t know if she was more amused by Hotch’s secret wish or his reaction to being exposed.

JJ tapped the page. “She has incredible technology skills, but they haven’t let her out in the field in three years. Her file is black-tagged because she is, apparently, ‘a severe flight risk who is prone to violent outbursts.’”

Hotch read the paper over JJ’s shoulder. “We can look into it.”

Delilah stood up from her chair and buttoned her jacket. “I have to cut out, I’m afraid. I have a meeting in twenty. I’ll keep an eye out for cases involving computers and make sure they end up on your desk. I’ll approve and prioritize your request for her help on said cases. Have a good night, everyone!”

There were waves and farewells, and then Hotch got back to business.

“JJ and Rossi will continue trying to get ahold of some files, namely those of 4381 and the two geniuses in the gap. They will orchestrate any attempt to come into contact with geniuses. Prentiss and myself will be going out to the biohazard waste facility to see what we can find. Dr. Meadowlark, please keep us updated on any information you might be able to get from your colleagues, and let us know if ICAP makes any further attempt to reach out to you.”

Meadowlark placed his hat on his head and stood up. “Of course. If that’s all…?”

“You’re welcome to go,” Hotch replied. “Thank you again for coming.”

Dr. Meadowlark waved and opened the door to leave. “Oh!”

Everyone looked up to see Delilah standing there with an apologetic look on her face.

“Sorry everyone, but you have a case. I just got the notification; the files should be coming through any minute.”

Disappointment travelled around the room, but Emily still tried to find some hope. “I don’t suppose it’s a computer-related case?”

Delilah shook her head. “Sorry, again. You’re headed to the middle of nowhere.”

There was another surge of disappointment, but there was nothing anyone could do about it, so they all fell into their roles. They left the conference room one after the other until it was just Morgan and an open file.

“Let’s see who’s gonna help us take down ICAP.”

Morgan stood up and reached across the table, dragging the papers over to himself and turning them right-side up. He skimmed the details, briefly noting the lack of a picture, and couldn’t help but chuckle at some of the things he read.

“Hmm… Penelope Garcia, huh?”


	9. Chapter 9

“So, Agent Hotchner, he—he looks at the man and asks, ‘That couldn’t be caused by normal wear and tear, could it?’”

Morgan threw his head back laughing, and Genius dissolved into hysterics, both of them stopping just long enough to look at Hotch and then start laughing all over again.

“Wear and tear, Hotch?” Morgan pressed a hand to his aching stomach. “It was a cut with a knife!”

Genius nearly snorted, covering his mouth with his device-free hand. “I haven’t been around cars for twelve years, and even I knew that wasn’t wear and tear!”

Hotch glared at them disparagingly. “I was covering my bases.”

Morgan and Genius both started laughing again, though not quite as raucously, and then Genius put his headphones in. He curled up, nestling into Morgan’s side with a mumble. “Bases…” Genius giggled and then fell silent, sighing contentedly.

Morgan draped an arm around the kid and put his own headphones back where they belonged, directing another grin at Hotch. Oddly, he didn’t mind the close contact with Genius.

Morgan figured it was just something he had gotten used to. Genius loved to be touched—also odd, because in another life, Morgan could see Genius shying away from physical intimacy of any kind, even handshakes and tight quarters—but with the occasional exception of a panic attack, Genius loved to be touched and held and _close to people._

Morgan wasn’t exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy, but there was something so innocent and pure about the way Genius tried to, for lack of a better word, cuddle other adults. Besides, after twelve years of isolation… after growing up thinking only mothers handed out hugs… how could Morgan tell him no?

“Morgan.”

Morgan pulled his headset down around his neck and looked at Hotch expectantly.

“Do you need a day off to recover?”

Morgan immediately knew where the conversation was going, and he shook his head. “Nope. I’ll be ready to roll as soon as we land.”

Hotch nodded slightly and looked over the legal pad in front of him. “I need to go home and shower, and then I’m spending a few hours with Jack at Jessica’s house. JJ, you’re going home for the afternoon, and then you’re meeting me at VA FedWaste at six, correct?”

JJ nodded, looking through her phone as she spoke. “I am also expecting a call from Chief West sometime today. She’s in a meeting until four, and she wasn’t certain when she would be able to get in touch with me after that.”

Hotch looked back at his notes, scratching down a few things before continuing. “Emily, you said you were going to look into employment records at MSD?”

Emily nodded from her seat on the plane, a legal pad sitting in front of her as well. “ICAP was established in ‘88, and Evans was only their driver for the past five years. Hopefully, I’ll be able to find other drivers and, if they’re still around, talk to them about the shipments they ran.”

Rossi rolled his shoulders and tapped Hotch’s legal pad. “Put me down for working from home. Someone has to do the reports for this case while you’re running all over God’s creation chasing leads.” He twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a drink. “I’ll be getting some features installed in my guest rooms, too. We’re gonna need a place for these geniuses to stay, and our boy might not need to be under lock and key, but I doubt we can say that for all the geniuses we’ll come across.”

“Hey,” Emily stopped writing and looked across the plane. “Mind if I come over? We can tag-team the research and report-writing.”

“Only if you let me cook for you.” Rossi grinned and raised his water bottle as if it were a wine glass.

Hotch chuckled and continued to write. “That leaves you, Morgan. Genius has an appointment with Dr. Meadowlark today—”

“And while Pretty Boy is seeing the doctor, I’ll be snooping around the office in search of our mole.” Morgan shrugged. “I might take the kid for ice cream or something afterward. Or to get a library card.”

There wasn’t a single face that didn’t have a smile at the thought of that.

“You know what?” Rossi rested his ankle on the opposite knee. “Why don’t you all come over for dinner? It’s about time that kid had a proper meal again—Hotch, make a note about teaching him to cook something _other_ than Hamburger Helper in the bureau’s kitchen—and Emily’s already going to be there.”

Morgan gave a thumbs up. “I’ll be there, and I’ll bring the kid.”

Hotch thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Me, too.”

 _I guess there’s no point in going home when the house is empty._ Morgan tried not to think about it.

Hotch set his pen down and addressed the plan. “Stay in touch with JJ or myself and meet at Rossi’s tonight if you can. Take tomorrow off and do something relaxing. The deeper we get into this, the more intense it’s going to get, and I don’t know when you’ll have free time again.”

There were affirmative murmurs around the jet, and Morgan turned his attention back to Genius, who was still pressed tightly against Morgan’s side, eyes closed and lips moving in silent song lyrics.

 _We’ll get this figured out, kid. Don’t you worry._ Morgan gave him a one-armed squeeze, and a happy smile pulled at Genius’ lips. _Everything is gonna be alright._

* * *

_If I were a mole, where would I hide?_

Well, seeing as Morgan had never been a traitor and never would be, he had absolutely no idea how to answer his own question, and that made it largely unhelpful. But Morgan had never been a quitter—and he never would be—so he continued to stand by the coffee machine and survey the bullpen.

_There aren’t any new hires; at least, not ones that started less than six months ago. Every case that comes in goes through JJ, and she would be keeping an eye out for any new or unusual correspondence, so it’s not hidden in case files. I think the janitor is new… and it isn’t like this place is under lock and key. People come to use the copy machine or fax if theirs is broken. Even—_

“Agent Morgan, are you looking for the mysterious note-sender, too?”

Morgan startled and let out a rather unprofessional term when the movement spilled hot coffee on his hand.

“Oh, geeze, I’m sorry!”

“Uh,” he set the cup down and turned on the water, sticking his hand beneath the flow. “Don’t worry about it, Anderson.” He flicked his hands to rid them of the water. “What was it you wanted to know?”

“I asked if you were looking for the guy sending Mary-Anne notes.” Anderson shrugged and gestured vaguely to one of the desks in the bullpen. “Me and some of the guys have a bet going. I think it’s Mark, from the archives, but most of them think it’s Andrew, the receptionist. Agent McMullen thinks it’s the delivery guy nobody knows the name of.”

Morgan grabbed a few paper towels and patted his hand dry, moving toward the desk in question. “What makes you think it’s Mark and not Andrew?” he asked, glancing around as he walked.

“She’s on her lunch break,” Anderson supplied, joining Morgan in his nonchalant approach. “I think it’s Mark because Andrew was on vacation when the first letter showed up.”

Morgan frowned slightly, sitting down at her desk and letting his eyes wander over the papers in plain sight. He wasn’t _technically_ going through her things without permission. Yet.

“Why are they betting on Andrew, then? Don’t they know about the first letter?”

“Nah.” Anderson shook his head and leaned against the desk, casually keeping an eye on the door. “It was set apart from the others. She’s been getting these every Monday and Friday for about three weeks, like clockwork, and they’re always sitting on her desk. Just her name on the front, nothing else. But that first one was taped to the underside of her desk. I only saw it because I dropped my pen, and it rolled from my desk to hers.”

Morgan leaned forward in her chair and looked up, running his hand along the smooth surface until he hit residual adhesive. _Something was duct taped here._ He continued to feel around, but there was nothing else unusual.

Morgan straightened up with a heavy sigh. “I don’t suppose she’s nice enough to tuck the letters in a drawer.”

Anderson snorted. “I wish. She puts them in her purse and takes them home every time.”

 _Figures._ Morgan sifted through the papers on the desk anyway, trying not to look at anything that seemed personal unless there was a chance it was coded. “She’s doing a good job of hiding whatever it is she’s getting letters about.”

“I think, whoever it is, she’s really into them. She gets that dopey, love-at-first-sight, butterflies-in-stomach smile when she reads them.” Anderson pushed off the desk and slipped his hands into his pockets. “You wanna place a bet?”

Morgan nodded slowly and stepped away from the desk, pulling his wallet out and handing over a twenty. “Put it on Andrew.”

Anderson frowned slightly. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Once they find out a profiler put their money on Andrew, they’ll up their bets, and when you win, you’re gonna give me forty and keep the rest for yourself.” Morgan grinned and waved the money to get Anderson’s attention. “All in good fun, right?”

Anderson grinned and snatched the bill away. “Well, you’re making a mistake, but if you want to put your money on Andrew…” He let his voice trail off and walked away, leaving Morgan by the empty desk.

_It could be harmless love letters, but…_

It could have been something else. So, Morgan went back to the coffee machine and reclaimed his drink, leaning back against the counter and watching the bullpen. It was a Friday, after all. Maybe he would get lucky.

* * *

“Miss Jereau, I’m sorry—”

“Agent Jereau.”

“Right. Agent Jereau, I’m sorry, but I can’t let you back there unless you have the appropriate clearance.”

“What could you possibly have at a federal bio-waste facility that I can’t see with FBI credentials?”

“I’m sorry, M—Agent Jereau, but that’s the policy.”

“Whose policy?”

Hotch cleared his throat as he rounded the corner, stepping up to the counter and flashing his own badge. “Sorry, I’m late. What seems to be the trouble?”

Behind the counter, a young woman with her hair in a tight bun was clacking away at a computer. She had a condescending smile on her face, and she didn’t do much to hide her irritation at having to repeat herself to a new agent.

“You and Miss Jereau—”

“Agent Jereau,” both agents corrected.

“Right. You and Agent Jereau do not have the appropriate clearances to see the ICAP wing of this facility. If you want to see that portion of the facility, you need a warrant.”

“We don’t need a warrant to investigate federal property.” Hotch held up his badge. “This is our warrant. You have exactly two minutes to open the door.”

Sighing, the woman blinked a few times and wet her lips, giving them a sickeningly sweet smile. “I can’t do that.”

“You can, and you will, or you’re going to lose your job.” Hotch may or may not have fought with Haley right before joining JJ, and he may or may not have been utterly fed up—pun fully intended—with everything from rush hour traffic to intricate conspiracy theories. “If I had the patience and the time, I would slowly explain to you, in a way you can understand, how the legal system works. I don’t have either, and after eight years of prosecuting, it isn’t nearly as satisfying to see someone’s face the moment they realize they have absolutely no idea what their unchecked ego has gotten them into.”

She didn’t seem at all deterred, her lips twisting into a sneerish smile as she opened her mouth to reply.

Hotch pulled out his phone and dialed, pressing the device to his ear a second later. It rang twice, and then he heard, “West.”

“Chief West, I need clearance to get into the ICAP wing of VA FedWaste.” He kept his eyes on the receptionist the whole time and realized he was a liar.

There was still something satisfying about seeing that face.

“Your badges should get you in.”

“Yes, they should, but the receptionist here…” Hotch leaned in to look at her nametag. “Alisha Burns is giving us a hard time. I hate to bother you, because I know how busy you are—”

Alisha slammed her hand down on the button to unlock the ICAP wing.

“Oh, never mind. It seems the problem has resolved itself.”

“You play dirty, Hotchner. I like you.” She laughed. “Best of luck.” And then she was gone.

Hotch snapped his phone shut and shoved it into his pocket, striding toward the doors without so much as a thank you, JJ on his heels.

“So…” JJ waited until the doors closed behind them to continue. “You want to talk?”

“No.” There was no room for argument in his voice, and he could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, the adrenaline of anger left unexpressed. “We need to focus.”

“I know.” JJ spoke softly, calm as ever. “That’s why I asked.”

Hotch was already replying when a hand on his arm pulled him to a stop, forcing him to actually look at his partner. Because he hadn’t up until then—he hadn’t made eye contact with anyone he didn’t identify as an enemy—and he should have known she wouldn’t let him get away with that.

“Hotch, I am… _all_ for you throwing your weight around, but this isn’t the way to do it, and this isn’t like you.” JJ bit her lip and searched his eyes, brow creasing with worry. “If you don’t want to share, I understand, but… give me something to go on, here. Just tell me you’re okay.”

Hotch inhaled and exhaled deeply, slowly, feeling some of the tension leave his body with the carbon dioxide. “Haley wants a divorce. I have the papers in my car, and she wants me to sign them uncontested so nobody wastes money on lawyers.”

JJ looked as though the statement physically pained her, and after a moment of thought, she nodded. “Okay.” She took a deep breath and then turned to look down the hall they were in. “What are we looking for?”

Hotch inwardly heaved a sigh of relief, his own gaze turning to the hall and wandering over the doors. “Boxes that are heavily locked or too big for comfort. If we can find any kind of shipment log, I want pictures of pages going back at least one year.”

JJ nodded her head and started to look around. “It isn’t that big.” She didn’t say anything immediately after that, but Hotch could tell the thought was incomplete.

“JJ?” he pressed softly.

“It just… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the right size, but maybe there’s another wing we don’t know about.” JJ let out a weary sigh. “It’s getting difficult for me to figure out where I should see a conspiracy and where I shouldn’t. This whole thing is messed up.” She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. “We’re supposed to be the good guys. We’re supposed to be one of the very, very few things in the world that’s black and white.”

Hotch sighed heavily and nodded his head, glancing over his shoulder at the double doors they had come through. “Tell me about it.” He shook his head and started to walk, grabbing the door to his right and gesturing to the one on his left. “Two rooms for me, two rooms for you, and we’ll see what we find before deciding whether or not to look for a conspiracy.”

JJ nodded her head and opened her designated door. “Sounds like a plan. We can make notes to compare later, and I have notes from my conversation with Chief West, too.”

“We can talk about them at Rossi’s tonight.”

They both turned their handles and pushed the doors inward, giving each other one last affirmative nod before disappearing into their respective chambers.

* * *

“Gin!”

“Unbelievable.”

“I think that’s twenty-three times he’s beat you now.”

“Twenty-four, actually.”

“Of course.”

Hotch chuckled to himself as he watched the scene unfold, downing the rest of his scotch and allowing some of his earlier stress to dissipate. Well, no, not dissipate. There was nothing about his stress that could be removed, only redirected; he could turn it into energy and try to work on their ever-increasing caseload.

“You didn’t even know how to play this twenty minutes ago.” JJ began to shuffle the cards, shaking her head in continued disbelief.

“You still want to play?” Genius asked softly, scratching at his arms until a gentle touch from JJ stopped him. “Even though I always win?”

JJ smiled and nodded. “Sure.” She started to shuffle but stopped again. “Actually, you know what? No. We aren’t going to play this again.”

Genius lowered his head and curled in on himself, dejected. “Oh. Okay.” But he offered no argument—he wasn’t anywhere near confident enough to try and pursue happiness that wasn’t handed to him on a silver platter.

Thankfully, JJ stopped his sadness with a wide smile, standing up and leaving the couch behind. She held onto the cards and grabbed her wine from the coffee table. “I need two more players.” She looked around the living room. “Come on. Morgan?”

Emily raised her hand and stood up. “I’ll play.”

Morgan shook his head. “If you had asked me two glasses of wine ago, maybe.”

Rossi stood up from his chair and grabbed his scotch. “I’ll play… whatever it is we’re playing.”

“Great.” JJ was already walking toward the dining room table. “We’ll need to use the table, and Rossi, I’ll need two more decks of cards…”

Hotch watched with a smile as JJ directed them, overlapping conversation accenting their movements as they got situated around the table. They commenced shuffling, and they looked like they were already having a good time, which made Hotch smile more.

Despite everything, it made him smile, and he tried to hang on to those positive bits. He noticed Genius was calling Morgan by his name instead of ‘Agent Morgan,’ and Morgan readily engaged in physical contact whenever Genius needed it. Their friendship was a Godsend in more ways than Hotch knew how to list.

“I’m going to teach you a game my family has played for… I don’t know, forever.” JJ laughed, still shuffling as she spoke. “I don’t know what the real rules are, and I don’t know where else people play it. Bolivian Canasta.” JJ kept shuffling until she was satisfied that all three decks were well intermingled. “Now, everybody starts with fifteen cards…”

Hotch let that smile return and linger on his lips, taking that positivity and trying to take it a step further. Genius was doing well, yes, but Emily also had some leads from MSD to follow, and Chief West was adamant that Ashland’s files would be in Hotch’s office by the end of the week. Of course, they were probably redacted, and there was…

 _Clearly, positivity is a weak point for me._ Hotch leaned back in his seat, trying to take another drink but finding his glass was empty. He let out a soft sigh, knowing he had to stop for the night but in no way wanting to.

_It won’t make you feel better, Hotchner. You know it won’t._

Hotch shook his head and set his empty glass on the coffee table. He leaned back again, sighing heavily, eyelids sinking slowly. He knew Rossi wouldn’t mind, and because he knew it was alright, he wouldn’t be surprised if he fell asleep within the next—

Hotch startled, hand flying to his pocket at the sound of his ringtone. Hotch startled made Morgan startle, too, and they exchanged a half-asleep, apologetic wave.

Hotch flipped his phone open and pressed it to his ear, though it took him another two seconds to process a greeting.

“Hotchner.”

“Agent Hotchner? You the one that came by my house?”

Hotch blinked in surprise and stood up, swaying for a moment before walking toward the foyer for a little privacy. “Michael? Michael Evans?”

“Yup. Don’t bother trackin’ this, it’s a burner.”

Hotch was surprised Michael even knew what a burner phone was. “Michael, where are you? What happened to you?”

“Can’t answer either of those. Sorry.” There were cars honking and metal banging in the background. “I wanted to call and let’cha know I’m alright. So’s Julia. We’re goin’ off-grid somewhere in Montana. Can’t tell you where, a’course, but we’re both alright.”

“Well, I appreciate you checking in.” Hotch paused, wet his lips, and shook his head slightly. If he had known he was going to get a call from Michael, he would have consumed his scotch just a bit slower. “Did you remember anything helpful about the case?”

“Naw, but Julia told me about something. She said if your genius boy is a 4380 like her, he knows about Maeve Donovan. She wouldn’t tell me nothing else—really upsets her when I try to talk about it, you know?—but she said Maeve Donovan started it all. She got the whole lot of’em unhinged, and things tumbled downhill from there. I don’t got no ideas on what any of that means, but I figured you might, and she asked me to pass it on, so…”

Hotch nodded slowly, leaning against the front door to Rossi’s mansion and pressing his head to the cool glass. “I see. I’ll definitely ask Genius about that. Thank you.” He paused, contemplated the fact that the conversation was even happening, and then he shook his head. “How did you get this number? If you spoke to someone in the FBI, they might—”

“I saw your card in your wallet.”

Hotch blinked. “What?”

There was a bit of crackling, and then Michael’s voice came back. “…wallet. You opened it up to get your genius boy’s picture, and I saw your business card.”

Hotch squinted slightly. “So, you… read my number and remembered it all this time?”

There was a pause, and Hotch figured Michael couldn’t make it all the way through a phone call without spitting. “‘Course. Once you see somethin’, it’s not like it goes away, you know? All I have to do is close my eyes, and there’s your card, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch was silent for a moment, and then he cautiously started speaking again. “Michael, have you ever been evaluated for photographic memory?”

Michael only laughed. “Agent Hotchner, I think we both know I ain’t that smart. I don’t remember pictures any better than everybody else.”

Hotch opened his mouth to object, but then he decided to let it drop. “I see. Well, thank you for calling me with the update. You said this is a burner, right?”

“Yep. I got a ton of’em.”

“How many is a ton?”

“Well, I been tryin’ to break up my purchases ‘cross state lines, you know? But I think I got ‘bout… twenty-five now. F’you think I need to get more, I will.”

Hotch slowly shook his head and spent a few seconds imitating a codfish. “No, that’s fine. You’re… being really smart about this.” He shook his head again, more to clear his mind than to express disbelief. “So, I won’t be able to call you back at this number.” He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can ask you to call me once a month to check in? I may have more questions, and I don’t have a lot of people I can contact for this. Everything is very…”

“X-Files?”

Hotch snorted. “If you had told me last year that I would be dabbling in the idea of a conspiracy theory, I would have laughed in your face.”

Michael laughed, his voice crackling out for a bit before coming back. “—ear that I would be on the run with a genius, think I’d’a done the same. But here we are, Agent Hotchner.”

“Indeed. Here we are.” Hotch shook his head, unable to wrap his mind around how drastically his life had shifted in less than two months.

“I’ll do my best to call you once a month, but if I don’t call or call late, don’t assume somethin’ bad happened to me. I might just be laying low, or Julia might be too skittish for me to contact outsiders. She’s real spooked—lotsa that PTSD stuff, you know?”

“Yes, I know.” Hotch muttered the word ‘understandable’ under his breath. “Thank you for calling with this information. I won’t tell anybody outside my team that you made contact. As far as the FBI is concerned, this conversation never happened, and Michael Evans is in the wind.”

“I appreciate that, Agent Hotchner, and like I said, I’ll do what I can to help.” There was a pause, distant voices, and then Michael was back. “We’ve been on too long. She thinks you’re trackin’ me. I gotta go.”

“Good luck, Michael.”

“You too, Agent.”

Hotch was opening his mouth to request Michael call him by his first name when the line went dead. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it for a long moment, shaking his head slowly.

 _I wonder what Michael’s IQ is._ Michael may not have gotten access to a quality education—or if he had, he might not have taken to the learning style—but he was clearly intelligent. His coworkers all spoke highly of him, of his ability to learn quickly and retain information. Michael himself had shown a variety of knowledge—from the locksmithing he learned from his father to the detailed notes he had made about Julia’s condition—and he clearly had a photographic memory of some kind.

_In another life, it he had different parents or a different hometown… would he have been carted off by ICAP? Or is his intelligence largely practical and unable to influence his IQ?_

And if that was the case, how was that fair? How did it make sense that geniuses of practical knowledge were somehow more trustworthy than geniuses of science and math? IQ really only measured one’s ability to test well, and yet an IQ above 165 was all ICAP needed to take you away.

Hotch rubbed his face. _One crisis at a time._ He opened Rossi’s front door and let himself out onto the porch, breathing in the cool, evening air. _West says we’ll have files on Ashland by the end of the week, but we already agreed we don’t know how helpful that will be. She also said she will find a technology case by Monday—_ ‘If I have to start murdering people myself,’ had been her exact words, according to JJ— _and talking to the new genius will be helpful. Penelope… something._

But there were setbacks. Mary-Anne had been out of the office during the call with Rossi that had been overheard, and while that didn’t rule out her admirers, Hotch didn’t think they were likely candidates. They didn’t have any other leads with the mole, and ICAP still held all the aces as far as information went. Redacted, password-protected, restricted access, confidential… there was no end to the red tape protecting whatever ICAP was trying so hard to conceal.

 _Maybe I’ll ask Rossi if I can sleep here tonight._ He rubbed his forehead, exhausted in ways sleep couldn’t fix. _Maybe I’ll just go upstairs and sleep without asking._ He turned and opened the door, letting himself back into the house and making his way toward the stairs. _Maybe I’ll just sleep for eternity, and then I won’t have to deal with any of this._

He liked that last idea the best. He wasn’t going to get it, of course, but it was still his favorite idea.

_I definitely should not have had that second scotch._

* * *

“I don’t know if this was a good idea, Hotch.”

Hotch glanced up from his phone and met the uncertain eyes of one Emily Prentiss, silently retorting with, ‘Well, it’s a little late for that.’

Emily couldn’t read his thoughts, of course, so she continued. “I agree we need the information, but her record is a mess.”

Hotch slipped his phone into his pocket with a grim nod. “I know. She’s been quarantined multiple times for violent outbursts, and she seems to have a penchant for breaking as many rules as she can.” But she was a lead.

Emily didn’t look up from the file in her hands. “I think she might have set a record, actually.” But she was a lead.

“Hey,” Rossi cut in both conversationally and physically, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. “We knew going into this that we would have to juggle our current case and our ICAP case.”

Emily turned another page, her expression reserved. “It’s not the two cases. I know we can handle that. I’m not sure whether or not we can handle _her._ ”

_We’ll manage. She’s a lead._

Morgan cleared his throat then, leaning back in his chair to peer around the cubicle wall. “Prentiss, don’t look now, but I think we’re about to find out.”

Hotch straightened up and stepped forward to meet the approaching group, stopping after three steps and waiting for them to close the rest of the distance.

_Penelope Garcia. She’s older than Genius, but not by too much. There are one, two, three, four, five different colors in her hair. She’s somewhat heavyset, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew how to throw her weight around literally and figuratively. She has five people with her instead of two, and their body language tells a very different story than that of Genius’ escorts._

In short, Genius was a flyswatter. Garcia was a pistol.

“You’re Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch extended his hand in greeting, only entertaining pleasantries with the head of the group. “Yes, that’s me.”

“SSA Davis. This is Genius #0366651-4381.” Davis handed over a keycard as well as an actual key, apparently for the handcuffs keeping Garcia’s hands behind her back. “You should know how this works already. You take the handcuffs off at your own risk, and you call the number on the keycard when you’re ready to send her back.”

Hotch slipped the items into his pocket. “Thank you. We can take it from here.”

Davis threw a hand in the air and gestured with his finger, almost twirling it in a circle, and the four other men dispersed. “Keep an eye on this one, Agent. Don’t leave her alone for a second.”

“We won’t.” Hotch held Davis’ stare for a moment or two, and then Davis slowly turned and followed his men out of the bullpen.

Hotch watched them leave, but as soon as they were through the glass doors, his attention was on the latest addition to his team. They stared at each other for a moment, neither blinking, neither smiling, and then Hotch opened his mouth.

“We—”

“Let’s get something straight here.” Garcia narrowed her eyes, and there was nothing but hatred in those chocolate irises. “I’m not here for you, and I’m not here for your government. I’m not here to help anybody. I’m here to see Spencer, and let me tell you something, _suit_ : I am like Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, alright? Spencer is that cute, British boy I can never remember the name of, and I am the sweet and lovable yet vicious mongoose that keeps him safe. So, when I see him and he tells me everything—because he always tells me _everything_ —about what you’ve done to him, you had better be ready, because I will go rabid mongoose _all_ up in your cobra nest. Comprende?”

Hotch did not allow a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth, and he kept his tone as solemn and level as ever. He raised a brow ever-so-slightly and feigned extreme disinterest. “Am I Nag or Nagaina?”

Garcia looked surprised for all of two seconds, and then she snorted. She opened her mouth to speak some more, but it was evidently her turn to be interrupted—which was a shame, because there was a little piece of Hotch that wanted to continue the battle of wits involving his favorite childhood movie.

“Penelope?”

As soon as Genius’ voice was heard, Garcia changed. Her body language and facial expressions shifted, probably much more than she realized, and her countenance immediately brightened.

“Spencer!” Hands still bound behind her back, she shot past Hotch and bounded up the stairs into Genius’ arms. “I missed you _so_ much!”

Genius wrapped his lanky arms around her, and neither of them seemed to mind that the hug was less than conventional. “I missed you, too. I tried to send you letters, but when you didn’t write back, I knew they must have gotten rid of them. I should have guessed, I mean… I guess I just thought…”

“Hey!” Garcia smiled widely at him. “No talking about sad things. We’re here now, right? Who needs letters when we can talk with our faces?” She tucked her chin over his shoulder and somehow, despite her lack of arms, squeezed him tight. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been really, really good.” Genius smiled back at her, just as wide and just as sincere.

Garcia didn’t buy it for a moment, but she smiled nonetheless. “That’s great, Spencer!”

Hotch was content to sit back and wait for them to get their greetings out, but it seemed Morgan was a little unhappy about his friend being commandeered, and he approached the duo almost immediately.

“So, Penelope—”

“You don’t get to use my name.” She glared at him. “Only my friends get to use my name, and _you_ are not a friend.”

Genius bit his lip and looked between the two of them.

“Okay, well…” Morgan let the words drag out, gesturing to Genius as he spoke. “He’s already Genius. We can’t call you Genius 2, so if you don’t want me to call you by name, what would you like?”

“You figure it out, suit.”

Morgan blinked, slightly affronted, and Hotch tried hard not to smile. He knew what came next, and it was all he could do to keep his poker face when Morgan adopted his classic, sassy-but-manly-man pose.

“Okay, then.” Morgan took a deep breath and spoke as if restarting the conversation. “So, Baby Girl, we’re gon—”

“You are not calling me that,” she snapped. If her hands were free, one would undoubtedly be on her hip while the other wagged in Morgan’s face.

“Uh, actually I am.” Morgan already had his hands on his hips, but he leaned forward to get on her level. “You told me to figure it out, so I did. It’s nice to meet you, Baby Girl.”

“Fine. Call me Garcia. It’s my last name, and that’s all you get.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Morgan put his hands up in a display of surrender and started walking toward the conference room. “It’s too late now. Out of my hands. Shoulda been nice the first time, but no, now you get to be Baby Girl from this point forward. Sorry, I don’t make the rules, I just follow them.”

Garcia opened her mouth to reply, but Genius stopped her with a single, pleading look. Headstrong as she was, it looked like she wanted Genius to be happy above all else, and Hotch knew that would quickly become a very useful tool.

Hotch walked up the stairs and joined his two geniuses. “Garcia, I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner. I’m the leader of this team. SSA Derek Morgan is the one who gave you attitude—fair warning, he will do that—and these are SSAs David Rossi, Emily Prentiss, and Jennifer Jereau.”

Garcia glared at each and every one of them in turn before turning sharp eyes back to Hotch. “This isn’t a meet n’ greet. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Hotch gestured to the conference room. “We’ll brief you in here, but first…” He looked at Genius, his eyes expressing the importance of an honest answer. “Spencer, I was told to remove the handcuffs at my own risk. If you trust Garcia, you can vouch for her, and I’ll take them off.”

Genius smiled and nodded immediately. “I’ll vouch for her, Agent Hotchner. Penelope won’t hurt anybody.” His smile expanded a bit, and Hotch felt a bit guilty.

Genius was probably excited to hear Hotch using his name, having no idea Hotch had intentionally done it to put their trusting relationship on display for Garcia.

Garcia glared at Hotch. She, unlike Genius, knew _exactly_ what he had done. She knew he used her care for Genius against her, and she was furious, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it—not while Genius was still standing there.

Hotch offered a small smile that may or may not have classified as a smirk, and then he pulled the handcuff key from his pocket. “Turn around, Miss Garcia.”

She glared for another second, but then she turned around and let him remove the cuffs. She withdrew her hands as soon as they were off, rubbing her wrists and turning back around.

Hotch extended a hand toward the conference room in a ‘ladies first’ gesture, and then he followed Garcia and Genius, the rest of the team trailing behind him.

_So far, so good. We’ll see how long it lasts._

Garcia entered the room warily, sticking right next to Genius at all times. Her posture was defensive, her entire being dedicated to shielding Genius from the outside world, but there was still trepidation in her eyes.

_She doesn’t understand fair treatment; doesn’t understand trust._

Garcia gripped Genius’ arm almost possessively, standing a few paces away from the conference table, keeping herself close to the open door. Normally, Genius would have sat down, but he didn’t make even make an attempt, which told Hotch that even though Genius had poor social skills in the outside world, he had the social skills of a genius down pat. They followed their own code, sticking together—quite literally—and keeping each other in a perpetually safe zone.

“Who are they?” Garcia asked, jerking her head in the direction of the screen.

“These are victims from a string of disappearances in Boise, Idaho,” JJ explained, grabbing the remote and pressing the necessary buttons to enlarge the three photos. “Our kidnapper is using social media to make it look like the victims are on vacation, so they aren’t being reported missing until two to three days after they’re abducted. We believe he used those same social media accounts to learn the ins and outs of their lives.”

Derek idly toyed with a pen, tapping it against the tabletop. “It’s a suburban area, so he wants privacy and space. He gets off on the control he has. These women aren’t safe anywhere, not even in their own homes, and he loves showing them.”

Garcia’s face twisted up. “Geeze. What are you guys? Psychopaths Anonymous?”

Emily answered that one. “We’re the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We use profiling to get ahead of serial killers—or, in this case, serial abductors—and get inside their heads so we know what they’re going to do next.” She paused, a curious look entering her eyes. “Didn’t they tell you what department you were coming to?”

“Psh. You’re new at this genius thing, aren’t you?”

Hotch grabbed the opening as soon as he saw it. “Actually, yes, we are. Why don’t you tell us about it?”

Garcia looked at him, and he could almost tangibly see the walls going up. “Well, for starters, it’s all need to know. So, what I need to know is who my middle man is and what it is you want me to do, _suit._ ”

Rossi arched a brow. “You need a middle man?”

Garcia tilted her head back and let out a groan in true teenager fashion, wanting to make it very clear how irritating and stupid she thought they were.

_Only she doesn’t. But the alternative is trusting us; defaulting to our knowledge and experience to shape her environment, to differentiate between safe and unsafe._

“Geniuses who work with computers have to have a middle man; someone who types everything I tell them to. They look everything up as they type it to make sure it isn’t dangerous. It takes a million years, and they usually can’t even touch-type. They suck, and we call them middle men.”

Hotch opened his file to take a look at the remaining information, shaking his head. “You’re not going to have a middle man. We don’t have that kind of time.”

Garcia squinted, looking at him as if she couldn’t tell whether he was joking or stupid. “Okay, so why am I here?”

Genius spoke up at that, reaching up with his free hand and gently tugging her sleeve. “Penelope, they’re gonna give you a computer.”

Garcia looked from Genius to Hotch, to Genius, to the screen, to Rossi, to Prentiss, to JJ, to Genius, and then back to Hotch. She avoided Morgan, and Hotch believed it was completely intentional.

“You realize I could topple your network right under your noses and you would have no idea.” Garcia narrowed her eyes slightly, but Hotch didn’t see any anger, only distrust. “I haven’t touched a computer in seven years, and the last time I touched one, it was because I busted out and stole it from the lab.”

Hotch stood up and took the closed laptop from the center of the table, pushing it until it was right at the edge, less than five feet away from her. “I truly believe you can do what you say you can. I am giving you a chance to do something better.” He tapped the closed device. “So, tell me, Miss Garcia: if I give you this, and I tell you how to use it to help us catch a psychopathic killer, will you help or will you topple our network right under our noses?”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m a psychopath. Why would I help you catch one?”

Hotch couldn’t contain the burst of quiet laughter. “No, you’re not.” He gestured to the laptop and looked at her again, leaning on the table, gaze unwavering. “So, what will it be?”

Garcia looked at the laptop for a long moment, and then she looked back at the women on the screen. She tilted her head slightly, and she must have imagined something terrible, because her eyes started to tear up a bit.

Garcia blinked rapidly and sniffed to clear her sinuses. “Yeah, okay. I’ll help.”

Hotch smiled at her. “Thank you.”

Garcia shrugged, outwardly indifferent. “It’s not like I have a choice. I either help, or I go back to ICAP.”

Hotch chose not to comment, instead sitting back down. “Genius. Garcia. Sit at the table with the rest of us.” Then, with a simple gesture, he handed the floor over to JJ.

JJ rolled her chair back slightly and turned toward the screen. “This is Doris Archer, the third woman to go missing in Boise, Idaho in the last year. She had an in-home security system, but the key code was put in, and her German Sheppard has gone missing.”

Hotch flipped through the first couple sheets of his folder. “What do we know about his MO?”

“Well, that’s why we’re being called in.” JJ shook her head with an exasperated sigh. “The abductions sites are _pristine._ No DNA except the victims, no signs of a struggle…”

Morgan nodded a few times, rubbing his chin. “No forced entry, either, and you said they aren’t reported missing for a couple days.”

“Is that where I come in?” Garcia was sitting on one of the chairs, cross-legged like Genius, and turning the seat from side to side. “You want me to figure out how he hacked their accounts?”

“That’s part of it, yes.” Hotch looked up from his files and made eye contact. “We would also like you to look into the accounts themselves and figure out if there are any venues they all visited on a regular basis—somewhere he could have come into contact with each of them repeatedly.” Hotch watched her face as he gave the instructions, and he could see a little spark in her eyes, hidden away in the darkest shade of brown.

She wasn’t used to being given clear orders; it looked like she had been expecting a ‘work some magic’ with no further details and unfair expectations.

She wasn’t used to respect; she didn’t think she would hear ‘we would like you to’ come from the mouth of anyone.

“I can do that.” She glanced at Genius, saw his smile and nod, and continued. “I could also tell you where the updates are being posted from. Every time you put a picture on facebook, the exact coordinates get posted, too, and text posts give at least a generalized area. It’s a great tool for stalkers…” She trailed for a moment and then came back. “If I have the bandwidth, I can try and run a facial recognition software to see if someone shows up in pictures on all the accounts, but that’s not a great first move.”

Hotch smiled warmly—he knew the rest of his team did the same—and nodded his permission. “If you think that will work, you can try it. Just keep me posted on what you do or don’t find.”

Garcia gave him a long, hard stare, and then she offered a tiny, almost invisible nod.

Hotch nodded in return and closed his file. “We don’t know how long he’s keeping them, and that means we don’t know how much time Doris Archer has left. Wheels up in thirty.” He tapped his file on the table and went to leave but stopped in the doorway to flash a final smile. “And Garcia?”

She looked at him, cautious, eyes scanning him relentlessly.

“It’s good to have you with us.”

With that, Hotch left the conference room behind and returned to his shared office, hoping he could make quick work of some overdue reports that needed submitting.

_Well, I have two geniuses in my care, and the world didn’t burst into flames._

Yet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains references/scenes from s05e22, "The Internet is Forever."

“Can someone please explain to me the appeal of these sites?” Rossi squinted at the paper in his hands and read the status updates aloud. “‘Having sushi for dinner. Yum!’ ‘Boss is keeping me late at work. Grr.’ I mean, whose life is so important that we would be interested in this kind of detail?”

Morgan chuckled. “I mean, I don’t know, I guess that’s the running joke.” He shrugged his shoulders. “No one’s life is that important, but we’d all like to believe there’s a group of people out there who care about all those little details.”

Rossi just looked back at the papers with a scowl. “I don’t even care about these kinds of details in my own life, let alone someone else’s.”

Genius laughed, which drew Rossi’s attention toward the far end of the plane. It seemed Genius found the interaction funny, if the lingering smile was any indication, but Garcia was switching between glaring at the team and looking at Genius with concern on her face.

“Light?” she asked quietly, almost in a whisper.

“Yellow,” was the seamless reply, equally quiet.

“Coffee?”

“Straight.”

“Deaf?”

“Maybe.”

“Snapback?”

“Single.”

“Candy?”

“Penny.”

Garcia nodded affirmatively and then went back to glaring, her eyes silently daring them to make her decipher the code. Rossi was half-tempted to take her up on that dare, but he waited to see what Hotch would do.

“Garcia, Genius, you know you can’t speak in code.” Hotch still had a file open in his lap, but his gaze was fixated on the other end of the plane.

“Sorry, sir.” Genius bowed his head slightly, a guilty expression crossing his face.

Garcia looked Hotch dead in the eye. “He’s not yellow. He’s green.”

Genius turned to her and, with a danger Rossi did not often hear in his voice, growled his reply. “No, he _really_ isn’t.”

“Spencer and Garcia!” Hotch barked, openly displeased.

Genius hung his head again, his anger fizzling out. “Yes, sir.”

Garcia expressed no regret, but she didn’t push her luck, either.

Hotch leveled a serious but not quite angry stare at the duo. “Both of you, sit down here where I can keep an eye on you.”

Genius quickly slid down the couch-like seat, stopping about a foot and a half away from Rossi. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Hotch looked at Garcia expectantly.

 _Everyone_ looked at Garcia expectantly, though some were more discreet than others.

Garcia smirked. “No.” She pulled her feet up onto the seat and made herself comfortable. “I like it here.”

Hotch looked at her for a moment, and then he nodded. He closed his file and got to his feet, perfectly calm as he ordered, “Everyone, move to this end, please.”

Garcia blew her bangs out of her eyes, irritated at worst. “I’ll just move again.”

“No, you won’t.” Hotch sat down next to her, waiting patiently for everyone else to make their way down.

Rossi stayed where he was—he had been in the middle of the jet to begin with—and gave Genius’ arm a reassuring squeeze; a silent reminder that Hotch was fair and kind and wasn’t going to hurt one of the very few friends Genius had.

“Garcia,” Hotch grunted out the word, one arm stretched across her middle and pushing her back into the seat she was trying to leave. “Do I need to get the handcuffs? Because I will.”

Garcia glared viciously but stopped trying to stand up, folding her arms over her chest.

Hotch wasn’t satisfied. “Do I need to get handcuffs, Miss Garcia?” He stared her down, demanding a verbal response.

“No,” she snapped.

“Good.” Hotch nodded his acceptance of the reply. “Now, if we could focus on the case, I am certain Doris Archer would appreciate it.”

JJ cleared her throat to break the layer of awkwardness that had formed over those who could only sit back and observe the battle of wills. “Right. Once we land, we’re going to meet with Sheriff John Fordham. They have been gathering the friends and family of all three victims, so we’ll need to interview them. They already processed the crime scene, but they left it otherwise untouched for us.”

Hotch gestured to Morgan before the last word left JJ’s lips. “You and Genius go to the last abduction site and see if anything points to his MO; Prentiss and JJ, interview the friends and family members; Dave, look into the women’s lives outside of social media. He could be locating them online but contacting them in some way that won’t show up on their pages.”

Rossi nodded in response to the order, but he wasn’t really paying attention. He was analyzing Garcia—her body language and micro-expressions—and replaying the encoded exchange in his mind. Most of it still made no sense to him, but he thought he might have been piecing together part of it.

_“Coffee?”_

_“Straight.”_

Rossi had a theory. He was almost positive Genius told Garcia that the team, namely Hotch, was straightforward. Genius could have said ‘black,’ and as far as coffee went, it would have meant the same thing. Straight had other connotations—be straight with me, give it to me straight, straight up now tell me are you really gonna love me forever, and so on.

Hotch was definitely straight coffee.

No sugar-coated words, no mixing in cream to disguise the bitter darkness. Only truth, regardless of how hard it was to swallow, and a clear set of standards and expectations. With Hotch, the phrase ‘what you see is what you get’ had never been more accurate.

Unfortunately, Hotch was too involved in the case to notice the way Garcia scrutinized him while he wasn’t looking, trying to figure out where her boundaries were. She wouldn’t know how straight Hotch really was until she had claims to compare his actions with.

So, Rossi lent a helping hand, because he was nice like that.

“What about you and Garcia?”

Hotch gave Rossi an odd look, confused but willing to answer. “Garcia and I are going to take a walk and discuss some things.” He frowned slightly, but he trusted Rossi enough to cooperate without an explanation. “We’ll join you at the station when we’re done.”

Rossi nodded, as if the question had actually been for him, and turned his attention to the window. _Better brace yourself, Boise. You’ve got a storm coming._

* * *

Hotch tacked the last picture on the evidence board and turned to check on Garcia. He found her clacking away on her keyboard, three monitors lined up in front of her, and he let himself relax a little.

Their talk had been brief, but Garcia seemed to get the message, and other than dirty looks and middle fingers she thought he couldn’t see, she wasn’t acting out.

_“I don’t want to send you back to ICAP, Garcia, but I will. I will call them from right here in Boise, and you will be back on a plane in the time it takes to write up the return order. If you want to fight me, do it at Quantico after the case is closed.”_

Hotch wished he could give more leniency. He wished he could give her the same reassurance and understanding he gave Spencer, but he couldn’t afford that. If Garcia caused any problems on the case, and those problems got reported and found their way back to ICAP, Hotch could lose both of them. ICAP was looking for a reason to keep Hotch away from geniuses, and Hotch wasn’t about to give them one.

Not to mention dealing with an abduction rather than a murder. Granted, Spencer’s first case had been similar, but that served as more of an example than anything. Hotch did _not_ want a repeat of the Owen Savage case.

“Morgan called from the Archer house.” JJ bustled into the room with an armful of files and stopped in front of the table. “They think the unsub put up cameras. Some were placed to watch who was coming and going and when, but there were others in non-strategic places. One was in the bedroom.”

Hotch looked at the board briefly and then back at JJ. “Voyeur?”

JJ held up a finger and wagged it slightly. “Emily asked the same thing, but Genius pointed out that no voyeur would kidnap the focus of their obsession.”

“It would take away the source of sexual release.” Hotch started to nod, lips drawn into a thin line. “He must be getting something else from the videos. Garcia,” he was pleased to see her looking up responsively, “I want you to look into illegal video sites and see what you can find.”

“Got it.” Garcia looked back to her machines, fingers flying from key to key, eyes scanning a mess of code that looked like gibberish to Hotch. “That’s gonna take a few minutes.”

“I understand.” Hotch frowned at the tabletop, his mind briefly wandering to their secondary case. _Garcia isn’t like Spencer. She has field experience, so her behavior in this setting is learned._ Profiling her while she worked could potentially give him insight into ICAP he couldn’t get from Spencer. _What sort of training do they give geniuses before sending them into the field?_

“Seriously, it’s gonna take a little time.”

Hotch pulled himself from his thoughts and looked down the table to Garcia. “I really do understand. I’m just thinking.” He turned his attention to JJ then. “Do we have any other leads at all? Did the family give any helpful information?”

JJ let out a quiet sigh and shook her head. “Doris Archer’s boyfriend noticed some pictures were out of order, and that’s how we found the cameras, but other than that… it’s just the same thing we heard from the detective. Everything about the victims’ lives revolved around their social media presence—one of the victims used it to promote herself because she worked in real estate. She saw it as a job opportunity.”

Hotch turned around to look at the evidence boards again, thinking perhaps he could rearrange the information and make something pop out as a result. _He no doubt uses the cameras to get inside, but we still don’t know how he picks his victims, and we don’t know how he gets into the house to plant the first camera. Maybe…_

“I was thinking—” Hotch nearly jumped out of his skin, JJ shouted in surprise, and Rossi continued as if there had been no reaction to him suddenly entering the room, “—about how he’s getting inside to plant that first camera, and I had a thought.”

Hotch discreetly pressed a hand to his chest to soothe his pounding heart. “Well, are you going to share?”

“What if he’s some kind of salesman?” Rossi had his hands in his pockets, elbows flapping slightly while he spoke; Hotch was positive it was Rossi’s arms trying to obey their Italian blood with his hands unavailable. “If he’s tech savvy enough for these mini cameras or video streaming, he’s tech savvy enough to make official-looking decals and business cards. He offers to demonstrate whatever it is he’s selling, and once he’s inside, all he has to do ask for a drink, and it’s guaranteed the victim will be out of the room for a couple minutes.”

JJ pursed her lips slightly. “Okay, but what would all three of these women be willing to hear a sales pitch on? And does this make his victimology random?”

Hotch tilted his head slightly and considered the possibility. “It could be why there’s no physical similarities between the victims.”

“Hey, Sir Hotch!” Garcia waved him over without looking up from her screens. “I have something. Well, I have a couple somethings. First, I found one of the videos.”

Hotch, JJ, and Rossi had gathered around the computers while Garcia was speaking, and it was Rossi who asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“If he posted it on the web, can’t you track that back to him?”

“Normally, yes.” Garcia drummed her fingers unhappily, and Hotch made a mental note to get her fidget toys. “Normally, give me seventeen seconds, and I’ll have the network he’s using, the physical address of the modem, embarrassing yearbook photos—whatever you need—and presto change-o, no more bad guy. But _this_ bad guy is a creepy computer aficionado.” She turned around her chair slightly, trying to figure out who to look at. “You guys know what a proxy server is?”

Hotch was fairly certain he did. “It’s an internet relay.”

“Bingo.” Garcia fired a finger gun at him, sound effects included, and then faced her beloved screens again. “Having two or three of these is more than enough, but this piece of work is using thirty-nine. He is bouncing off Russia, North Korea, China, the Ukraine, Uzbe—”

“Garcia,” Hotch interrupted as gently as he could. “Can you track him back to Boise?

Garcia gave him a look. “Duh. I can do anything.” She bit her lip then, confidence fading. “But it isn’t a quick process, and I don’t know if we have that kind of time. I already have a couple programs running, but I don’t have the bandwidth I need to run many more. I mean, I can, but then everything will move a lot slower.”

Hotch and Rossi made eye contact, experiencing the same ‘eureka’ moment.

“He has to be selling some kind of internet service or computer hardware.” Hotch nodded his head toward the computers. “He targets people who are excessively active on the internet, and to get in the house, he uses the appeal of a faster network.”

Garcia pursed her lips. “Yup. That would’ve gotten you in my house pretty quick. My internet sucked.”

Hotch was curious to know more about her house—it occurred to him that he had never checked her file to see how old she was when she was admitted—but it wasn’t exactly a good time. He tucked the tidbit away for later.

“I’ll talk to Detective Fordham.” JJ pulled her phone from her pocket, already walking away from the group. “Maybe he can help us find companies to look into.”

Hotch nodded his approval and looked back at the computers, pointing to the screen. “Garcia, play the video. We need to see what he posted.”

“Yeah, just lemme…”

Garcia clicked the appropriate button, and then they watched. Hotch and Rossi were, of course, paying attention to the unsub. Garcia, on the other hand—

“Oh, please don’t hurt that doggie.” She chewed on her nails nervously and let out a huge sigh of relief when Bruno was sent outside. “Oh, good.”

Hotch couldn’t help but smile a bit, though it quickly faded as he watched the unsub walk up the steps.

“He acknowledges the camera,” Rossi commented under his breath.

Hotch squinted slightly as the video continued. “This one must be on his shirt or hat. He wants to be able to relive this from his own perspective.”

“Why does he want to relive a kidnapping?” Garcia whispered.

Hotch wasn’t given time to answer, the unsub grabbing Doris by the throat before he could even open his mouth.

Garcia screwed her eyes shut and turned her head. “Someone tell me when this is over. Please.”

Hotch nodded absently, entirely focused on the murder and its execution. _He’s not even trying to keep her alive. He came to kill. But why take the bodies? He has the foota—_

“Someone?” Garcia asked.

Hotch realized his mistake— _her eyes are closed, of course she didn’t see me nod—_ just as Rossi lifted a hand to shield her face.

“Not quite yet,” Rossi mumbled, just as focused as Hotch had been. “Look at him. He’s tender with her. She means more to him dead than alive.” He dropped his hand and lightly nudged Garcia on the arm. “You can look now.”

Garcia blinked rapidly, shaken but unwilling to admit it, and she quickly wiped her eyes dry. She cleared her throat, shook her head, and slipped back into work mode.

“So, um, there’s something else kinda ginormous and bad.” Garcia pointed to the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. “See this line of code right here?”

Hotch leaned on the table. “Yes.”

“It’s there because our Citizen of the Year set up a chat room. He streamed the video live.” Garcia bit her lip and looked up at Hotch. “I’m not a Psychopaths Anonymous clerk, but I’m pretty sure that’s worse than posting it after the fact. Right?”

Rossi snorted. “Right, kid.”

“He wants an audience,” Hotch murmured.

But it was worse than that.

“He has fans. It’s a concert, and the main event is murder.”

* * *

Hotch rubbed his eyes and turned away from the evidence boards, seeking out the nearby kitchen and, subsequently, _coffee._ He honestly didn’t know how long he had been awake, but he was certain if he didn’t get some sleep soon, he was going to start hallucinating. He could feel it.

“Hotch!” JJ shouted across the room, storming up to him with Detective Fordham on her heels. “Someone leaked the profile.”

Hotch inwardly cursed. _That is the last thing we needed._

“Someone at the press conference started asking about ‘facial symmetry,’” Fordham provided, clearly disgusted.

“It must have been one of your officers.” It slipped out before Hotch could catch or phrase it in a more diplomatic way. _Fighting with the local authorities is also the last thing we need._ He opened his mouth to smooth out his accusation, but he was interrupted.

“Hotch!” It was Morgan, and he didn’t look happy. “He’s posting another video.”

Hotch was across the room in a heartbeat, making a beeline for Garcia’s computers. “What do we see? Come on, determining markers, what do we see?”

“Uh, one-story cottage,” Spencer offered.

Fordham shook his head. “That could be anywhere.”

“Is there a number on the house?” Morgan hovered on Garcia’s other side.

JJ shook her head. “It’s too fast. He’s already at the door.”

“You creepy little punk,” Garcia growled to herself. “He’s using twice as many proxy servers, and I didn’t have time to finish making the program I was gonna use to—”

“Garcia, is that the chatroom?” Prentiss sidled in next to Morgan and pointed to the screen.

“Uh,” Garcia spared a brief glance at the monitor on her left. “Yes.”

“He’s completely changed his MO.” Morgan shook his head, his next sentence overlapping with Spencer’s. “It’s way too early, there’s too much light… what happened?”

JJ ran her hands through her hair, both exhausted and livid. “Someone asked the wrong question at the press conference.”

Spencer started scratching at his arm. “He’s in the house.”

Prentiss looked at the screen with a pained expression. “Come on, turn around, just _turn around._ ”

“She’s gotta have knives in that kitchen. Maybe she can fend him off.” That was what Morgan said, but his voice didn’t relay any sense of hope.

Spencer, ever the optimist, tried to offer a solution. “She has new appliances; can we track them through work orders?”

“It’s too late; he’ll be gone by then,” Rossi answered.

Hotch recognized the resigned look on Rossi’s face, and he knew he was wearing the same one. Deep down, Hotch knew the woman on the screen was as good as dead, but he still grasped at one last straw.

“Garcia, can you give us something?”

“I’m stateside now.” There was a tremble in her voice. “I—I’m almost to Idaho, I just need more time.”

Hotch took one look at the tears in her eyes and knew it was pointless. “Garcia, you’re not gonna make it.” He tried to keep his voice soft.

“Yes, I will,” she insisted. “I—I will.”

Hotch pushed aside any feelings he had regarding the situation and looked at the case with a cold, calculating eye. “Forget the unsub. Can you run a trace on everybody in the chatroom?”

“I can’t do both, okay? Let me do this.”

“Garcia, tag the viewers.” Hotch really hoped she would take his next words seriously. “That’s an order.”

Garcia wasted no more than a second slamming her fist down on the desk, and then her fingers were flying again, she was simply looking at a different screen. It was all numbers and code, black windows with rainbow text, but it made sense to the girl with five colors in her hair.

No one said a word when the unknown victim stopped breathing, but Garcia’s fingers didn’t slow down even a little bit. Several seconds later, the video was done, and still Garcia didn’t stop.

“Garcia.” Hotch leaned down so he could speak directly into her ear, the move silently ordering everyone else to get on with their business. “What are you doing?”

“I tagged the viewers, but it’s not a thirty second process.” She blinked rapidly, not taking her eyes off the screen. “It takes time to do a sweep and figure out who is watching from where on what servers. If they’re smart, they’ll be using proxy servers like the unsub, and that’s going to take some time to unravel, too.”

Hotch put a hand on Garcia’s shoulder only to have it shrugged off.

“Get out of my space, suit.” She couldn’t get a single drop of genuine venom into her words.

Hotch glanced around, pleased to see the team gathered in front of the evidence board, and then he turned his attention back to Garcia. “Come on. We’re going to take a walk.”

“Not—not right now.” It was hard to sound angry when she tripped over her words.

“Garcia.” Hotch put his hand back on her shoulder, and he didn’t let her shrug it off that time. “You need to take a walk with me _right_ _now_.”

Garcia’s hands slowed to a stop over her keys, and then she simultaneously got to her feet and swept everything except the monitors themselves onto the floor. She stormed toward the exit, Hotch following closely behind her. JJ could handle any apologies for the hardware damage done; he had some slightly more complicated damage to attend to.

Hotch followed Garcia into the warm evening air, and she turned on the spot as soon as the door swung shut. She glared at him with glassy eyes, and Hotch felt his heart clench. She was trying so hard not to cry, trying so hard to be an angry rebel.

“I walked,” she hissed. “What do you want?”

“I want you to listen to me for a moment.” Hotch started to walk, passing Garcia and moving down the sidewalk at a slow and easy pace. He knew there was a parking lot out behind the building, and it was about as secluded as he could get under the circumstances.

It took a few seconds, but Garcia eventually decided to follow him. She caught up and fell in step behind him, shoving her hands deep into her pockets.

“Garcia, how long would it have taken you to locate the unsub if you had all your protocols in place?” His tone was neither judging not pitying, simply curious and self-assured.

Garcia didn’t say anything for a moment, her eyes glued to whatever happened to be on her left. “Three minutes, maybe. Can’t get much faster than that.”

“Three minutes to get a location, and based on the kill zone… a five-to-ten-minute drive to the victim’s house. Maybe a little more, maybe a little less.” Hotch slowed to a stop, waiting until she turned around to continue. “If everyone on this team, yourself included, had done _everything_ as well as it could possibly be done, that woman would still be dead. The unsub was in and out in less than five minutes, and there is nothing we could have done to change that.”

Garcia bit her lip and looked down and to the right, cracking her knuckles while still keeping her hands hidden.

“Garcia, that is the job. We don’t win every time. We do our best, and sometimes that’s not enough, but that’s not our fault.” Hotch stepped a little closer, leaving three feet of space between them. “Garcia, do you hear me?”

Garcia inhaled deeply, lips pressed together, eyes blinking rapidly. She kept looking at the darkness to her right, breathing deliberately and futilely trying to keep a lid on her emotions.

Hotch sighed softly and closed the gap, his arms carefully finding their way around her body. She had rejected most physical contact since her arrival, so he kept his touch as light as possible, tightening the embrace only after he went unrejected.

“Garcia,” he whispered, cradling her head to his chest. “It’s okay to cry. I won’t tell anyone. I just need you to understand that this is not your fault. You couldn’t have prevented this. Geniuses have limits, too, and that’s okay. That’s what makes you human.”

Garcia broke.

Her shoulders began to shake as her arms found their way around his waist in uncoordinated reciprocation of his hug. She buried her face in the shoulder of his suit and started to cry, fingers curling through the back of his jacket as she held on for dear life.

Hotch rubbed her back and stroked her hair, speaking softly. “It’s a difficult job, and you didn’t get trained for it. You didn’t ask for it. You don’t have a say, and I understand that. I don’t expect you to handle this as well as my team.” He let one hand rest on her head while the other continued to rub her back. “I know you don’t believe me, and that’s fine—you have every right to your mistrust—but you are safe with my team. You really, truly are.”

Garcia didn’t say anything, but she didn’t have to. Just the fact that she was still in his arms, still crying openly, still allowing him to touch her was enough.

Hotch wasn’t disillusioned. He knew he hadn’t gotten anywhere near Garcia’s heart, but he made progress. For her sake, and for Spencer’s, he hoped that progress was enough.

* * *

“Huddle up, homies, and meet Mac Jones.”

Hotch pressed his lips together, swallowing a litany of questions about Garcia’s health in favor of following more professional lines of inquiry. “That isn’t the ID we got from the company. This is definitely him?”

Garcia held up a finger. “Yes and no. Mr. Jones got his identity stolen last year. From the picture the company gave us, I can tell you who our creep used to be, but the unsub burned through Jones’ identity for two weeks and never looked back.” Her fingers flew across the keys as she spoke. “This… is Robert Johnson, three-time loser, arrested for possession of torture videos. He spent some time in a halfway house and then… poof.”

Hotch frowned. “Do we have any idea at all where he went after that?”

“Nope.” Garcia chewed on her lip and flipped between windows. “I _did_ find a blog of his online. Here’s a lovely quote, ‘next time you won’t be able to stop me.’”

Spencer, who was hovering on the other side of Garcia, looking over her shoulder with eyes almost as tired and bloodshot at hers. “That’s his narcissism again. He was furious about getting caught; now he’s using that rage as an excuse to indulge the fantasies he’s always had.”

Hotch folded his arms over his chest, one hand coming up to rest beneath his chin. “Garcia, is there a pattern to the identities he steals?”

“No, he’s super disciplined about it.” She shook her head, tucking a combination of blue, blonde, and purple behind her ear. “Most of the time, the problem with tracking someone down is that they’re off the grid, but this guy is the total opposite. He’s all over the grid, okay? He is manipulating the grid; he has _become_ _one_ with the grid.” She shook her head. “He never stays in the same place for long, and he never uses the same identity twice. It’s driving me crazy.”

 _Crazy enough to work through the night without stopping?_ Because Hotch was pretty sure that was what had happened, not that his four-hour nap left him much room to judge.

Hotch sighed. “Okay, so, how are we going to find out who he is now?”

“I don’t think we are.” Garcia shook her head, pausing for a moment to look up at Hotch. She was gauging his reaction, but Hotch didn’t give her much to work with. “If he’s this flexible with his name—his real name—we’re not gonna be able to pin him down this way. But there’s another name he uses that I _can_ track: his hacker handle.”

Spencer tilted his head to the side, confused. “Wouldn’t he have hundreds of those, too?”

Hotch waited to hear the answer, equally confused.

“Oh, most definitely, but you said he’s a narcissist, right?” Garcia looked at Spencer for confirmation and continued once she got it. “He won’t be able to resist taking credit for what he’s doing, which means he’ll have to be able to identify himself to other hackers. Once I have his hacker name, the little cockroach is mine.”

Hotch looked at the screen, keeping the majority of his doubt to himself but still asking, “You’re sure you can catch him that way?”

Garcia gave him a reluctant sort of nod, bitterness creeping into her voice as she replied, “It’s how the FBI caught me.”

“Oh?” Hotch leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, you didn’t grow up in it like Spencer did.”

Garcia offered a slight nod and opened her mouth as if to speak, but she cut herself off and pointed to one of the windows on her screen. “Um, so, yeah. If you can get the unsubs’ online name from one of the chat room sickos you arrested this morning… that would be awesome.”

“Rossi, Morgan, and Prentiss are handling that right now. Spencer, can you let them know about the need to know the hacker handle?”

Spencer gave an enthusiastic thumbs up and bounded from the room, smiling to himself. Somewhere in the back of Hotch’s mind, he made a mental note to spend some one-on-one time with Spencer; the last thing either of them needed was Spencer acting out because he felt replaced or ignored or unwanted.

“I, uh, I don’t have anything else for you right now.” Garcia chuckled, but there was a nervousness behind it that had shadowed most of her actions on the case. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“You seem to have this mentality of me expecting you to pull answers from thin air. Spencer doesn’t have that.” Hotch inclined his head slightly, seeking Garcia’s eyes. “Did you work with a team like that?”

Garcia shrugged her shoulders. “Most teams are like that. I dunno, like, a sixty-forty split.” She shrugged again, typing slower but never fully letting the computers rest. “Spencer never worked in the field. He still had to give answers in a ridiculously short time span, but it wasn’t as… breath-down-your-neck-y as it is in the field.”

Hotch pursed his lips slightly and nodded his head, considering the scenarios before figuring out how to continue. “Well, if you haven’t already figured it out, you don’t have to worry about that from this team.”

Garcia gave a noncommittal hum and kept her eyes on her screens.

“So, were you arrested for a crime and then admitted to ICAP, or did ICAP target you independently?” Hotch asked, a curious tone slipping into his voice.

“Crime.” Her lips twisted into a scowl, and she spared him a brief glance. “If you can call it that. Hall of Fame Cosmetics tests on animals. I was just trying to help.”

Hotch smiled lightly. “That may be so, but testing on animals isn’t illegal.”

“So?” she snapped, eyes flickering over to him before zeroing in on her screen again. “Neither is locking Spencer up because he’s got a high IQ, but according to _you_ , that’s not a good enough reason for it to be happening.”

Hotch pressed his lips together and nodded his head in a sideways manner. “Hmm… you do have a point there.” He looked at her, watching her expression carefully to see how she would take his admission of wrongdoing.

“Of course I do.” Garcia kept her expression guarded, but Hotch could still see some surprise and hesitant trust in her eyes. “Not that it matters. Hall of Fame Cosmetics still tests on animals, and Spencer is still property of ICAP.”

“For now,” Hotch added, deciding he wanted to end the interaction on a more positive note. “We’ll see how things progress. For now, let’s focus on getting Mr. One With The Grid.” He offered her a faint smile and pushed off the table. “I’m going to get myself a coffee. Can I get you something?”

Garcia looked at him like he was a rattlesnake, but after a long moment of silence, she replied with a simple, “Coke would be great.”

“Just regular?” Hotch asked, already moving toward the exit.

Garcia gave him a nod and, after a moment, a very small smile. “Thanks, Sir Hotch.”

“You’re welcome, Lady Garcia.” Hotch gave her another smile of his own and left the room behind, hoping he had built enough rapport for them to get the information that they needed before it was time to send Garcia home.

* * *

“So… what is this, exactly?”

Emily kicked her shoes off and pulled her feet up onto the chair, crossing her legs. “Me and the rest of the team are conducting an independent investigation of sorts, and I just need to see if you can clear up some questions we have about Genius’ time with ICAP.”

Garcia gave her a suspicious frown, tugging on a strand of hot pink hair as she looked Emily up and down. “What kind of questions?”

Emily opened the folder on the table between them, tucking her own hair behind her ear as she looked it over, trying to keep the setting as casual as possible. “Uhh, let me see… here, this is the biggest one. Genius gave us a list of his blockmates, and we’ve been looking at the last five years in particular, and there’s a weird gap for two years that we can’t explain. You were with Genius right before and right after that gap.”

Garcia let out a heavy sigh and crossed her arms over her chest, letting her eyes wander over the kitchen area and bullpen—she looked anywhere, really, as long as it wasn’t Emily’s face. “That’s…” Her expression shifted for a moment, face scrunching up with something like pain, and then she made eye contact. “If I don’t talk, you’ll just ask him, won’t you?”

Emily wet her lips and considered the question. “Well, there’s some things we already asked him about… so I doubt we’ll ask again, but… yes. We don’t want to get him too heavily involved, but we’re investigating something very important.” She spread her hands slightly in a gesture of openness. “We’ll do what we have to.”

“Yeah?” Garcia snorted and looked away again, but she was quicker to bring her gaze back that time around. “What’s so fascinating about ICAP?”

Emily gave her a sad smile and a completely honest answer. “If I tell you, you’ll think it’s some kind of trick to get you to like me.” She shrugged slightly. “And I wouldn’t blame you, but it also wouldn’t get us anywhere.”

Garcia pursed her lips and tilted her head, tugging on a lime green strand as she hummed thoughtfully. She seemed to struggle with the idea for a while, her gaze flickering from Emily to the floor to the ceiling and back again.

“You know he was… not okay after what happened, right?”

Emily pointed to the papers. “This says he was at ICAP Sanitarium for four months. That was right before you were returned to his cell block… before that, you didn’t work any cases for two and a half years.”

“I won’t talk about that.” Garcia spat out the words before the last syllable could leave Emily’s lips, the response seeming entirely instinctual. “Not me, not what I did. You can request files if you want that, and Spencer doesn’t know anything, so don’t ask him.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes—mostly purple with a bit of electric blue—calming down surprisingly quickly.

 _I’ve seen that before._ Then again, Genius had similar temper flares, so she probably recognized it from the time she spent observing him. _No, that’s not right._

“I was transferred out in ’98, and Genius #3969416-4387 took my place on that block for a while.” Garcia didn’t look at Emily while she spoke, but there wasn’t anything dishonest in her voice or body language.

Just sadness. Tangible grief weighing down her shoulders.

“Genius didn’t tell us ab—”

“He doesn’t remember.” Garcia bit her lip and paused, again showing more emotion than secrecy. “Her name was Maeve. If…” She looked around for a moment and then grabbed a salt shaker. “If this is Spencer, then this,” she put the pepper next to the salt, “was Maeve, and these,” she tapped the table with her fingers, the four points making a square, “were the other two geniuses on the block.”

Emily furrowed her brow and leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on her files and giving Garcia her full attention. “Okay. Got it.”

“Maeve and Spencer talked all the time—and no, I won’t tell you how they got around the no-talking rule—and after about three weeks… they fell in love.” Garcia shrugged, a weak smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, eyes misting over. “Stupid. Cliché. But one hundred percent true.” She blinked a few times and sniffed. “But Maeve was depressed… among other things…”

Emily watched as Garcia fought with herself, her hand cautiously sliding across the table. She left it where Garcia could grab or ignore of her own volition, and she continued to listen in silence.

“It, um… she just finished… working a case, and… I don’t know. Maybe it was a really bad one. They never told us.” Garcia shrugged, but her eyes weren’t as quick to dismiss the pain. “She had a mirror. Broke it. Cut her wrists.” She shrugged again, but her lip was wobbling. “Spencer, uh, he—he just didn’t—I don’t know if he saw it happen, like, like if she cut herself in front of him or—”

“Garcia,” Emily prodded gently, brow creasing. “What happened?”

“Spencer lost it.” Garcia’s voice cracked with admission. “He completely lost it, and after his meltdown… he forgot all about her. He remembers the rest of those two years.” Her shoulders shuddered with a barely repressed sob. “He remembers cases he worked, books he read… if he talked to the other blockmates or bumped into someone in the library… it’s all there. But he has no memory of Maeve even existing, let alone what she meant to him.”

Emily got up and took a few steps toward a nearby desk, grabbing some tissues and returning to the table. “That’s why Genius was sent to the sanitarium, and that’s why you don’t want us to ask him about it. If we try and get him to recall what happened during those two years… it could have serious consequences for his mental state.”

Garcia took one of the tissues and dabbed her eyes, still trying to make it seem like the crying was minimal. “It was a bad couple of years. After Maeve, there was a domino effect, and it just… some of them… it was just a bad couple of years.” She shook her head a few times and then fell silent, heaving a sigh that dragged her shoulders as low as Emily had seen them go.

“Garcia, did you ever talk to anyone about this? Does ICAP offer any kind of therapy?”

Garcia scoffed, folding her arms over her stomach in a gesture that was more cornered than defensive. “No. If you talk about stuff like this, you just get drugged.” She looked at Emily briefly, a silent question in her eyes.

“We’re working on getting Genius off some of those medications.” Emily smiled tightly, nodding toward his room. “We got him off the Ritalin, and he’s almost off the Seroquel.”

Garcia’s face lit up, and despite her lacking Genius’ under-developed emotional state, she still had a childlike hope in her eyes when she asked, “Really?”

Emily nodded, her smile growing softer, more genuine. “Yeah. We have an independent psychiatrist. He’s very good.” She cleared her throat. “Um, I could talk to Hotch. If we can keep you on this team with us, like we did Genius, Dr. Meadowlark could see you, too. I’m sure you’re on things you don’t need to be on.”

Garcia looked at Emily for a long moment, and Emily knew that look. She had worn it several times herself—that was what happened when you pretended to be someone you weren’t, when you were bound by the expectations of the class you were born into—and it made her chest ache. It was the look of being _seen_ for the first time. It was the kind of cautiously hopeful yet blown-away-with-wonder look that took over your features when someone knew you were a liar and a fake… and instead of turning the other way, they wanted to get to know whoever it was you were fighting so hard to hide.

“Um…” Garcia sniffed, drumming her fingers on the table and then setting her hand close to Emily’s, though she never made contact. “I can answer more questions, if you have’em.”

Emily shrugged. “If you want to take a break, we can. JJ said she was going to look for another technical-electronic-computer-related case, and even if she can’t find one right away, we’re telling ICAP we need you to help us complete the reports. You’ll be staying with Agent Rossi tonight.” Emily lowered her voice and leaned forward. “He’s got a freakin’ mansion.”

Garcia blinked in surprise and then laughed a little, almost like a giggle. She blew her nose and crumpled the tissue in her fist, giving Emily a small smile. “So, are you gonna tell me what the manipulative-sounding part of all this is?”

Emily expressed surprise for a moment, but she quickly eased her expression into a smile. “Uh, sure.” She leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head. “We noticed some… odd things about Genius… his behavior, his medications, his files, how ICAP was… _managing_ things involving him.” She constructed the sentence as carefully as she could. “It was Hotch who first put it together, actually.”

To her surprise, Garcia offered a slight nod. “He’s good at reading people. He’s…” She bit her tongue, looked at Emily, and then looked away. “Wanna know the code?”

Emily took a moment to process the question, but she thought back to the conversation on the plane and immediately nodded. “Yeah. That’s been bugging me for days—though, you should know, Rossi is pretty sure he figured the coffee part out.”

Garcia gave a little smile. “Color was first, and there are four answers to that. Green, yellow, red, and black. It works just like a traffic light, and black is if you don’t know. It gives you an idea of how much someone will allow. If they’re red, you’re not going to get away with anything, and you’ll probably get in trouble for things you can’t control. If they’re yellow, you won’t be able to get away with anything, but they aren’t unreasonable. Green people are pushovers.”

Emily whistled lowly. “Man, I can’t believe you called Hotch a pushover.”

Garcia bit her lip nervously. “Don’t tell him?”

Emily laughed. “Tell him what?”

Garcia didn’t quite laugh, but she did smile and shake her head. “Well, one of the other things I asked was what kind of candy you guys are. He said penny, as in Penny Candy. So, you’re traditional. You might not be open to the idea of geniuses, but in a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ kind of way, if we don’t try and use our genius to get into trouble, you’re going to treat us with a certain level of respect just because we’re human beings.”

“Unconditional Positive Regard,” Emily replied, nodding understandingly. “It’s the belief that human beings deserve to be loved simply because they are human beings. You don’t have to accept or even like them, but you acknowledge they _are_ human and that means they deserve love, no matter what they’ve done or do or will do.” That was a very loose definition, but she wasn’t about to give a dissertation.

Garcia nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, that’s it exactly. So, when you said Sir Hotch is the one who noticed something was wrong… that makes sense to me, because someone with what the code defines as a traditional way of thinking is going to look at what they expect from ‘normal’ people and make judgements from that. Sometimes, that’s not so great, because some abnormal things aren’t so bad, but in other ways… Penny Candy people are the only ones who stop and say, ‘Um, this shouldn’t be happening because it just shouldn’t.’ And they don’t need any other reason to justify their perspective.”

Emily felt herself growing more excited as the conversation continued. Not only was she getting information, but Garcia seemed to be opening up to her, and—to be perfectly honest—the communication technique was a fascinating way to get around such strict limitations on speech.

“So, what other—?”

“Penelope.”

Both women turned to look at Genius, who had come up to the table rather suddenly. His arms were wrapped around himself, gripping the sleeves of the dark purple button down he had left hanging open, and his eyes were wide and glassy.

“Spencer, what’s wrong?” Garcia got to her feet so fast she almost knocked her chair over. “Spencer? Hey, what’s wrong?”

Genius stammered for a moment, lips wobbling as he fought not to cry. “Is it—is it true? Is Ashland gone?”

Garcia froze, a look of shock and horror passing over her face. “Spencer…” She shook her head a few times. “I mean, I haven’t seen him, but no one—”

Genius choked out a sob and pressed a fist to his lips, hanging his head so his bangs hid his face. “He’s gone. He’s gone, Penelope. I saw the papers.”

Emily slowly got to her feet, watching as Garcia wrapped Genius in a tight hug, the latter dissolving into hysterics. She reached out and put a hand on each of their backs, ignoring the jumps she caused and gently rubbing in an attempt to offer comfort.

“Hey, what’s wrong with Pretty Boy?”

Emily turned her head to see Morgan leaving Hotch’s office, the majority of the team not far behind him; they had been trying to figure out their next move, but whether it was tears or time that adjourned the meeting, they were all coming toward the trio.

“I don’t know,” Emily replied. “Something about Ashland?”

JJ frowned, coming around to standing on Spencer’s other side. “Yeah, they just sent the files, like, an hour before we landed. What’s wrong with them?”

Spencer gripped the sides of his head and suddenly shouted, “He’s gone!” as if that explained everything.

Garcia hugged Spencer tight, running a hand through his hair. “It’s okay, Spencer. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Hotch grabbed a chair and placed it behind Spencer, urging him to sit down while JJ copied his move and pushed Garcia’s chair closer to her.

“Garcia, do you know why Spencer is so upset?” Hotch prodded, his tone serious but not unkind. “Is there something we need to know?”

Garcia bit her lip as she sat, holding onto Spencer’s hands and watching him with pain in her eyes. “Ashland… did his file say… did they retire him?”

Spencer let out another sob at the question, already nodding.

JJ blinked. “Um, yes, we were told they took him out of the field.”

Garcia looked at JJ for a moment, then at Hotch, and finally at Emily. She stared with eyes screaming of vulnerability, her body practically shrinking as she peered up at the agent she had been so willing to talk to just moments earlier.

“Did you really mean what you said?” she whispered.

Emily frowned, confused. “I didn’t lie about anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Are you really investigating ICAP because… you think they’re… doing something bad? Maybe… maybe to geniuses?” Garcia’s hands were shaking, and it was the sudden reappearance of halting sentences that triggered Emily’s memory.

_Hotch said Spencer’s body language and speech patterns changed as soon as he was asked about special jobs. Whatever is making them so upset, they’re under strict orders not to talk about it._

So, Emily gave an encouraging smile and a nod. “Garcia, if it’s something you’re not supposed to talk about, it’s still okay.” She gestured to the space around them. “There’s nobody here, just us.” Meaning the mole was also out of the building, which was good because she had no idea how the next several minutes were going to play out.

Garcia continued to hold Spencer’s hands, toying with them and occasionally reaching up to stroke his hair or adjust his shirt, clearly needing something to fiddle with. “Retired… doesn’t mean retired.”

Emily didn’t like the sound of that.

“Retired means… put down.”

With that, Spencer started sobbing, no longer able to keep himself together. He tore his hands away from Garcia and buried his face in them, doubled over in his chair and wailing loudly.

“Spence,” JJ started, crouching on the floor beside him and giving his shoulder a shake. “Spence, talk to me.”

Morgan reached out, too, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Come on, Pretty Boy. You know it’s safe to tell us. Was it just unexpected? Kinda caught you off guard?”

Spencer shook his head frantically. “No, no, no…”

“Garcia,” Rossi started, moving a little closer to where Emily was standing. “How often do geniuses retire?”

Garcia thought about it for a moment, dashing her tears away and trying to look more put together than she was. “Um… I don’t know, maybe… a couple times a year?”

Rossi nodded grimly. “But this past month… there’s been more. Right?”

Garcia squinted at him, swallowed hard, and then nodded. “Um, yeah.”

“Was one of them named Julia?” Hotch spoke calmly, but Emily could tell from his body language that it took everything in him not to gather the two geniuses into his arms and never let go. “We don’t know her last name.”

“Julia, too?” Spencer squeaked, another cry coming up his throat. “But—”

“She’s alive,” Hotch quickly assured. “She was found in the back of the shipment truck still alive; right now, she’s in the wind. We have no idea where she is, and we’re going to let it stay that way for the foreseeable future.”

Garcia heaved a sigh of relief, and while Spencer seemed to stop crying for a brief moment, it didn’t last. He was soon sobbing in full swing, as if there had never been a break at all, and they were still no closer to knowing the exact source of his distress.

“Did you have a fight with him before you left?” JJ asked softly. “Something you wanted to tell him, and you didn’t get the chance?”

Spencer shook himself violently. “It’s my _fault,_ ” he wailed. “It’s my fault!”

Morgan rubbed his shoulders. “Pretty Boy, what are you talking about?”

“Ashland’s dead, and it’s all my fault!” Spencer repeated himself, as if that would make things clearer, and then he was sobbing again and mumbling under his breath.

“Spence…” JJ shook her head, speaking with as much sincerity as she could muster—and for JJ, that was a lot. “It was _not_ your fault.”

“Yes, it was!” Spencer pulled his legs up onto the chair with him, fingers digging into his arms and scratching frantically. “I was the one who—who told them, it was—it’s my fault, oh God, please forgive me, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault…”

“Come on, man.” Morgan pulled on one of Spencer’s arms while Hotch moved to get the other. “Come on, you’ve been doing really good. You haven’t been scratching at all lately.”

“Take a deep breath, Spencer,” Hotch ordered. “Take a deep breath, and _after you’re calm,_ tell us what you mean.”

Spencer only continued to shake his head, pulling against the hands keeping him from tearing at his own skin. He dropped his feet back to the floor and squirmed, but there wasn’t a lot of fight behind the movements, and in less than ten seconds he was simply sitting there, hanging his head, and crying quietly.

“Spence… it’s okay.” JJ rubbed his leg, squeezing his knee. “No matter what happened, no matter what you did, it’s going to be okay.”

Spencer sucked air down and looked up at Hotch, tears and snot smeared across his face. “I’m so sorry, Agent Hotchner.”

Emily turned in a quick circle and grabbed the tissue box from the table, holding it out for Hotch to take from, which he did.

“Shh, it’s okay.” Hotch wiped Spencer’s face and leaned down, looking him in the eye. “Spencer, it’s _okay._ I promise.”

Spencer clenched his teeth, fresh tears welling up in his eyes, but he didn’t let himself look away. “I—I did a bad thing, Agent Hotchner. I did a really bad thing.”

“I believe you, but that doesn’t mean things won’t be okay.” Hotch grabbed another tissue and held it out, glancing at Morgan to indicate he could let the other hand go.

Spencer blew his nose and tossed the paper aside thoughtlessly. “I… I told them about Ashland.” He hiccupped, and as Hotch opened his mouth to question further, Spencer shrank in on himself and blurted out the rest. “I told ICAP you were investigating Ashland.”

Silence.

Emily looked around at her teammates, hoping someone would have a better handle on the situation than her, but they were all expressing equal levels of shock and confusion. Even Garcia’s face was twisted up with bewilderment; she hadn’t known about him reporting to ICAP, either.

Hotch—God bless Hotch, his patience, and his unnaturally large heart—moved so he was right in front of Spencer and knelt down. He pushed away JJ’s and Garcia’s hands, albeit gently, and took Spencer by the elbows. He kept Spencer’s arms at his sides, allowing the distraught genius to grab onto Hotch’s forearms in a similar fashion, and when he spoke, it was the perfect blend of concern, warmth, seriousness, and love.

“Spencer, I want you to tell me what you’ve been doing. Start at the beginning and walk me through; help me understand why you did what you did.” Hotch squeezed Spencer’s arms. “I’m not angry with you, Spencer.” He glanced around. “Is anyone on this team angry with him?”

“No way.” JJ was the first to reply, partly overlapped by Morgan, who said, “Just worried, Pretty Boy; you’re scaring me,” while Emily and Rossi added, “No, not at all,” and “Not a chance,” respectively.

Hotch squeezed Spencer’s arms again. “No one is angry.”

Spencer bit his lip hard. “You should be.” He whimpered. “You’re gonna hate me.”

“I swear to you, Spencer, we will not hate you. Even if what you have to say _does_ make us angry, we will not hate you. Look at me.” Hotch let go of Spencer’s arm long enough to gently turn his head. “I could _never_ hate you. Do you understand? Never.”

Spencer shuddered through a quiet sob and screwed his eyes shut. “I told you I didn’t want to be alone.” It took everyone a moment to return to Spencer’s first night at the BAU. “I knew this was gonna happen.”

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Hotch said softly. “What happened while we were gone?”

“Got a letter. One of the people who dropped me off left it under the desk over there.” Spencer pointed without looking up, face awash with shame and fear. “ICAP said if you showed any interest in investigating them, I had to keep them updated.” He sniffed hard, scratching Hotch’s sleeve but clearly not getting the relief he did from scratching himself. “It didn’t look like it would be a problem at first, but then… but then you kept me, and… I didn’t want to go back, and even if I did, I wasn’t allowed—not until you lost interest—and I…”

Rossi cleared his throat softly. “Is that why your fear of being left alone dropped off after those first couple days?”

Spencer nodded miserably. “Once I got the orders… it didn’t matter anymore. I knew what I had to do, and nobody else saw me get the orders… so that night, at Agent Rossi’s house, I called them to confirm I got the letter. It took less than thirty seconds… and Agent Rossi was sound asleep.” He looked at Rossi for a brief moment, and then he looked at Hotch and hung his head again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please forgive me. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Shh.” Hotch squeezed his arms and started rubbing the limbs, applying pressure in what Emily assumed was an attempt to offer the same comfort of scratching without all the damage. “I forgive you, Spencer. I just want to know what happened, that’s all.”

Rossi shrugged his shoulders, hands resting in his pockets. “I couldn’t hold a grudge against you even if I wanted to, kid.”

Spencer hiccupped, curling up slightly as if to hide from their words—anger was something he was familiar with, but forgiveness was a strange and foreign concept to him.

He was afraid, Emily realized. More than anything else, he was afraid.

“Um, a-after… after I fought with you—uh, with Agent Hotchner about Owen Savage… I walked to the house to… to work with Morgan.” He sniffed.

“I remember,” Hotch encouraged, still rubbing his arms.

“Well, I—I stole some money from an officer’s wallet before I left…” he drooped under the weight of another rush of guilt, “…I went to a store and got change, found a payphone… and I called them to update.”

Emily kept her outer expression masked, but inside, she was caught somewhere between cursing and wincing sympathetically. _Spencer was raw and upset, they needled information out of him, and found out his behavior was poor. They thought setting him off in the field would keep causing problems until we got sick of him and gave up, so they pushed the Summerville suicide case into our path._ They traded one trigger for another, trying to press every button Spencer had so he would burn out and the team would _understand_ how necessary the medications and strict behavior control was.

“Is that why you were panicking when you got there, kid?” Morgan asked softly, rubbing Spencer’s shoulders again. “You didn’t want to talk to them?”

Spencer looked up at him, bottom lip wobbling. “It was both. I—I was upset because of the call, but I really did get lost, and… and I didn’t want you to send me back. I didn’t want to go back, and I…” He choked out a few more sobs and dropped his head. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan squeezed his shoulders again. “Don’t, kid. Not to me, okay?”

Spencer nodded weakly, and Hotch waited a moment before gently instigating the conversation again. “So, you called them during the Savage case. What happened next?”

“I… I couldn’t call them again until I was waiting in your office the morning after we got back from the case. I told them… I told them I was pretty sure you were going to send me back.”

Hotch nodded understandingly. “Is that why they were so upset when I tried to get files from them instead?”

Spencer offered a faint nod.

“Did they hurt you because of that?”

Spencer shook his head. “I got yelled at. That’s all.” He sniffed, gripped Hotch’s arms, and sniffed again. “It wasn’t… wasn’t hard to figure out you and Agent Rossi were taking a close look at my files. I got left alone enough that I could update them on that. I got kept back for the next case… and they were happy about that. I… I didn’t tell them that you said I could stay permanently. I… I still haven’t. I’m too scared.”

“That’s okay, Spence.” JJ reached out to squeeze his arm before backing off again. “You don’t have to tell them.”

Spencer looked at her, his face twisting up for a moment like he was going to cry again, and then he got back to his explanation. “I was really… I thought I was okay, but… but then the suicide case, and I… there was just _so much_ in my head…”

“You think the stress triggered the depressive episode?” Hotch questioned softly. “That’s understandable. You were under a lot of pressure, and you were being emotionally exhausted every day.”

Spencer trembled but nodded his head. “Once I told them I was seeing an independent psychiatrist… they kinda… I don’t know, it got more…” He struggled with his words, a few fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. “It was more important. It was…”

“They panicked,” Emily provided, giving him a small smile. “They panicked because they realized you have a family that cares about you; that is never going to let you go.”

Spencer looked at her with wide eyes, fresh tears welling up. “Even though I—”

“Even though.” Everyone in the team replied, not letting him finish.

Hotch squeezed Spencer’s arms and gave him a small smile, allowing warmth to overshadow his concern for the first time since the conversation started. “You aren’t going anywhere, Spencer.”

Spencer hiccupped and reached toward Emily’s tissue box. “You—you mean it?” He grabbed a tissue and pressed it to his nose, blowing hard.

Hotch nodded deliberately. “I mean it.”

Spencer struggled with himself for a moment, but then he latched onto Hotch’s arms and continued. “I didn’t… I couldn’t figure out where you were getting the files from… where you got your timeline from, but I knew it was accurate. It wasn’t until I overheard you talking to Agent Rossi on the jet that I knew how close you were getting… so that night when… when I was at the hotel…” His face twisted up, but he only had enough tears left to make his eyes glassy. “I told them… that you were going to look into Ashland’s files. I figured they would just… just send the redacted ones, I didn’t know—I thought—”

“Hey,” Hotch interrupted softly, shaking his head. “This is not your fault, Spencer. They are the ones abusing their power. It doesn’t matter what they use to justify that abuse, it’s still their fault. You are not responsible for Ashland’s death anymore than we were responsible for Angela Hayes death.”

Spencer blinked a few times and frowned, confused. “You mean… the first case?”

Hotch nodded. “I could have called for a genius sooner, and given how quickly you found our unsub, if I had, Angela Hayes would still be alive. I know how that feels.” He let go of Spencer’s hand and reached up to cup his face, thumbing his tears away.

Emily averted her eyes, feeling that she was interrupting something private; she had never seen Hotch so overtly _gentle_ with anyone. Not even victims got that kind of treatment, and while she suspected Jack had been on the receiving end of it more than once, Emily had never actually witnessed it.

“I made a bad call, and so did you. But I’m not the psychopath that took Angela Hayes, and you’re not ICAP. Our mistakes don’t make us responsible for other people’s evil. They’re the bad guys, Spencer. It’s their fault, not ours.”

Spencer leaned into Hotch’s hand, and as Emily watched, it became so _painfully_ apparent how touch-starved Spencer was. Logically, she knew he had been isolated for the half of his life when he did the most developing, but actually _seeing_ it—seeing the way his head tilted, the way it made him relax almost immediately, the crease in his brow that broadcasted his inner struggle over whether or not to seek more—was different. Spencer just wanted to be held—he just wanted to be _loved_ for goodness’ sake—and if that wasn’t the most heart-wrenching thing Emily had ever seen, it irrefutably took a close second.

“Did you talk to them again, Spencer? Or was that the last time you called them?”

Spencer shook his head. “No, I… I called them again. I told them what little I could figure out about the new section chief. They asked why Erin Strauss left, but I didn’t know. I… I didn’t know about the truck driver finding Julia, so they didn’t hear about that unless it was from someone else. I would’ve—I would’ve figured out what was—” He took a deep breath, letting Hotch rub his arms as he exhaled himself into a state of calm—relatively speaking.

“Take your time, Pretty Boy.”

Spencer swallowed hard. “Um, I knew you were looking for a mole, but… I didn’t tell them that, either. I was afraid… I was afraid of what they would do if they thought you were on to me.” He blinked rapidly, swallowed again, and held Hotch’s arms tightly. “Um, I told them there was a big meeting, and I told them who was there, but I didn’t know anything about what you guys talked about. I found out the next day that you were gonna bring in Penelope and… it got harder to call them after that.”

Spencer sniffed hard and looked over Hotch’s head at Garcia, prompting Emily to do the same. Garcia was biting down on her lip, tears rolling down her cheeks despite her lack of audible sobs, both hands clutching each other on her lap.

“I know—I know you always taught me not to—not to let them talk me into something that—that went against my morals or beliefs, but Peneleope—” Spencer’s voice cracked and he shook his head, his eyes scraping together enough saline to push a tear down his cheek. “Penelope, they were gonna let me see my mom.”

Emily felt a knife going through her sternum, remembering all-too-vividly the desperation Spencer had for a single phone call; from the moment they met him, all he wanted was his mother. It was the most childish thing about him, and yet, it got swept under the whirlwind of casework, and conspiracies, and complications, and medications, and meltdowns, and mysteries.

How could they have missed something so blatantly obvious?

Of _course_ ICAP would use Spencer’s mother to manipulate him.

And they should have protected him from that, and Emily was furious with herself.

Spencer rushed on, desperate to find favor in Garcia’s eyes. “I know—I know it wasn’t right, but I—I haven’t seen her in so long, I—I was gonna _see_ her, Penelope, in _person_ , and I just—it’s been so, so long, Penelope, I just—I just—I just wanna see my mom, Penelope.” His shoulders shuddered as he struggled through the end of his explanation. “I just want my mom.”

Garcia quickly got out of her chair and crossed the short distance between them, wrapping her arms around both him and the chair he was on. “Oh, baby, it’s okay. Spencer, you could have told me. I would do anything to see my mom one more time, so there is _nothing_ in me that would be disappointed or angry with you. She’s your _mom_ , Spencer. It’s normal.”

JJ slowly joined Garcia, also wrapping her arms around him. “It’s _completely_ normal.”

Hotch couldn’t hug from where he was, but he never let go, and Morgan shifted from a shoulder rub to arms wrapped around Spencer’s shoulder. Emily and Rossi both stepped forward, nearly running into each other as they approached the side of the chair that wasn’t taken. Spencer didn’t have any tears left, but he shuddered in their arms, practically melting into the comfort they were offering.

“It’s gonna be okay, kid,” Rossi said.

“We’re not mad,” Hotch assured.

“We got you, Pretty Boy,” Morgan murmured.

“We’re gonna figure this out, Spence,” JJ whispered.

“And I won’t let anything bad happen to you,” Garcia added.

Emily didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to, because that was the understanding they had always had. She didn’t wear false faces with Spencer—it was one of the things that made him so dear to her—and she couldn’t think of any words to say, so she said nothing.

Because there were no words for the rage—the fury, the blinding _red_ —rushing through her veins. It was the kind of anger that kept up until it saw a result, the kind of anger that could only be alleviated or explained with actions, the kind of _utter lividity_ that could make government subdivisions _quake._

Because it was no longer a question of whether or not ICAP was going to be dismantled; it was a question of whether or not Emily Prentiss would have to tear out every single rivet with her bare hands—and she would.

If it came down to it, she would, and she wouldn’t regret a thing.


	11. Chapter 11

Rossi was an entertainer. Maybe it was Italian blood, maybe it was all the times he spent helping his mom prepare family get-togethers and special occasions, or maybe he just really liked cooking. But, for whatever reason, Rossi was and always would be an entertainer.

That said, when the BAU team arrived at his mansion, Rossi was quick to serve drinks and throw together some appetizers, never mind the fact that it was two in the morning and they had just returned from a case.

“Okay.” Hotch leaned back in his chair and sipped his hot tea. “Spencer, explain ICAP to us. Nothing is forbidden, assume we know nothing, and start from the beginning. Garcia, if you have any input, I would appreciate hearing it.”

Garcia gave a small nod, sitting next to Spencer on the couch, hovering by his right shoulder like a guardian angel.

Spencer nodded, too, and took a look around the room. He started at Morgan, who was directly to the left, and moved his eyes clockwise across Emily, Hotch, JJ, Rossi, and Garcia. His eyes darted back down and fixated on the floor—as they had for the majority of the time since the incident in the bullpen—his face swollen and red from the excessive crying.

“Um… ICAP is an organization that uses geniuses for jobs. Most of the time, you work with different subdivisions of the FBI, but you can be loaned out to other divisions, too. CIA, NCIS, NSA…” Spencer shrugged and rolled his hand slightly, indicating the list went on. “Sometimes, you, uh… do other things… um…” He pulled his feet up onto the couch and wrapped his arms around his knees. “Sorry. This is hard.”

“It’s alright, Pretty Boy.” Morgan nudged Spencer’s shoulder. “Take your time.”

Spencer nodded weakly and leaned into Morgan’s touch, still tense. “Um… you do different jobs… special jobs… that maybe aren’t so good… and it gets you things. Um… I…” He took a deep breath, blinking rapidly and rubbing his forehead. “I, um, I invented a new strain of anthrax… and the antidote to go with it… back in ’99…”

Rossi concealed any expression of surprise he may have had in his mug.

“Um, then, about five years ago… I created a kind of EMP that, once used, releases a corrosive acid that completely destroys the device.” Spencer shifted in his seat, pushing himself back into the cushions with a twisted expression Rossi suspected represented something like helpless frustration.

“Were either of those ever tested on a civilian population?” Emily asked softly, pulling her feet onto her chair. “Or don’t you know?”

Spencer bit his lip and scratched at his thigh. “I… I know the anthrax was. I don’t know where or when… but I got confirmation a few months after I finished it that it worked, and I got—I got my book.”

Rossi swore inwardly, barely able to keep from grumbling to himself. _Kid invents a new biochemical weapon and gets paid with a book. Geeze._ But he sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“They probably used a third world country of some kind,” Garcia offered, putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder but addressing Hotch. “They usually picked somewhere remote, where the local government wouldn’t be able to do anything if they figured out who attacked them. Not that anyone ever did. At least, not as far as I know.”

Spencer nodded in agreement and swallowed hard. “Um, the EMP could be tested on devices in a closed lab, so that—that was never used on people, to my knowledge.”

JJ clicked her pen a few times and hummed, scratching down some notes on a tablet. “If we can figure out when the anthrax was tested, we might be able to connect it to ICAP through financial records cross-referenced with a timeline of the epidemic.”

Spencer looked almost hopeful at that. “You think you’ll be able to get financial records?”

JJ looked at Spencer, surprised, and then she looked at Garcia. “Well, can you?”

Garcia blinked, caught off guard. “Um… you want me to hack them?”

“No,” Hotch interjected. “We want a mysterious, third-party vigilante to hack them and periodically dump their records into public forums.” He gave a sideways kind of nod. “So, yes, but only as directed, and only if you can do it without it being traced back to you.”

Garcia grinned. “Oh, yeah. It’ll take a long time, but I can do it.” Her smiled faltered slightly. “I will need some things, though, and we can’t have anyone tracking _our_ financial records and finding out we were behind the leak.”

Rossi arched a brow. “I have money, but I’m not a bottomless pit.”

Garcia shook her head. “That’s no good, anyway. You’re close to this, and if they suspect you and look at your financial records…” She shook her head. “No way. I’ll figure out a way around the problem and get back to you. However, there is one more thing, and I definitely need you guys for that.”

Hotch looked at her expectantly. “What is it?”

“I need someone inside ICAP to help me get in. I know exactly who it has to be, where she’ll be when, and all you have to do is slip her a chip when no one’s looking. She can get it connected to their mainframe on the inside, and that will both help me get in _and_ make it look like the leak is internal instead of a hacker from the outside.”

Morgan pursed his lips slightly. “Okay, but…” He shook his head. “How we gonna get in?”

JJ pointed to Hotch with her pen. “Hey, we could potentially use this to force their hand.”

Rossi gave her an arched brow, sipping his coffee while Hotch voiced his question.

“What do you mean?”

“ICAP doesn’t know Spencer is staying with us permanently.” JJ glanced around the room as she spoke, and her gaze lingered on Spencer long enough that Rossi looked, too. “We can set up a time to go in and get Spencer’s book—because that _is_ his possession, even according to them—which would get us inside and send a message that Spencer isn’t coming back.”

Rossi didn’t miss the way Spencer tensed at that, some of the red fading from his flushed cheeks. _Easy, kid. Easy._

Hotch rubbed his chin and nodded slowly. “If we tell them he isn’t coming back, it could make them panic, which could lead to a mistake. However… the last time they panicked, they killed the genius we were looking into. We can’t risk that happening again.”

Emily held up a finger, countering Hotch’s point with one of her own. “But Julia wasn’t from Spencer’s block, and we don’t know who the first victim was. We know ICAP went from killing geniuses a couple times a year to killing three—or at least trying to—in one month. They might keep killing regardless of what we do.”

“In which case, we need to nail them as soon as possible,” Hotch finished, nodding to himself. He seemed to consider the idea for a moment, but then he shook his head. “We need to find out who the first victim was, and we need to look at the cases Julia and that other genius worked on. Still, even if they were killed for other reasons, we know the last genius we looked into was killed. We need to be sure they won’t just kill everyone who has a 4380 serial number once they know Spencer is staying with us.”

Rossi swirled the coffee in his cup a few times, pressing his lips together. “Our best bet is to make them afraid of a move that permanent. Trying to take custody and lock people up is one thing—they can always backtrack if it looks bad for them—but death is permanent.” He held up a finger to indicate he wasn’t done, and then he finished his beverage in a single gulp. “I think we should finalize our custody of Spencer and begin the process for taking custody of Garcia. We’ll tell ICAP about how helpful they’ve been and say we don’t want to risk sending them back because… well, things just seem to _happen_ to geniuses, especially ones we’re interested in. We would _hate_ to lose these _wonderful resources_ , so we can’t leave them in ICAP custody, because ICAP has a _history_.” He rolled his hand to indicate furthered conversation along the same lines. “Basically, we tell them we’re on to them. They’ll panic, which is what we want, but they’ll know we’re watching their every move and waiting for an excuse to come down on them.”

There were several murmurs, hums, and contemplative expressions around the circle. Finally, Emily spoke up, pointing to Rossi but looking at Hotch.

“That might actually work.”

Hotch still seemed hesitant. “My only concern would be Garcia. If we don’t already have full custody when we tell them, they could take her back. I don’t want to risk that.”

“I do.” Garcia blurted the words out immediately, scooting to the edge of the sofa with an excited light in her eyes. “It’s worth it to me. If they take me back, okay, but there’s no way they’ll kill me when they know what you’re up to. I can survive more time behind bars if that’s what it takes.” She spoke faster with every sentence, almost desperate. “Honestly, it might give me an opportunity to escape during transfer and start hacking on my own terms. It definitely can’t be traced back to you then.”

Hotch looked at her for a long moment, and then he let out a sigh. “Well, it isn’t as if we’re finalizing any decisions tonight… so, for now, we can call this our plan.”

Garcia sighed in relief, smiling despite the clear fatigue on her features.

 _We’re all tired. We need to get some sleep before we try tackling much more of this._ Rossi looked admittedly forlorn, his gaze lingering on his empty coffee cup. _There comes a point when you can’t just caffeine your way through any more consciousness._

“Spencer, you’ve been quiet.” JJ looked concerned, her brow slightly furrowed. “Is there something else?”

Spencer fidgeted in place, twisting his lips around, eyes focused intently on the floor. “I… I really just want to go to bed.” He took a deep breath, opened his mouth to speak, and then started over with another inhale. “ICAP runs tests on geniuses. There are a lot of different things they… do… to us… and it’s possible the increase in deaths is because they’re taking more risks in the laboratory.”

Rossi blinked a few times, muttering under his breath. _Just when I thought this case was all out of shock factor, we throw human experimentation into the mix._ He rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a heavy sigh. “Hotch,” he started. “You call it.”

Hotch immediately understood, and he nodded in agreement. “I think it’s time for everyone to get some sleep. We can continue this discussion in the morning.”

Rossi sent up a silent hallelujah, but as tired as he was, he still got to his feet to see everyone to the front door. After all, no matter the circumstances, including a middle-of-the-night meeting about corrupt, government conspiracies, Rossi was an entertainer.

 _Yeah,_ he decided. _It’s probably the Italian blood._

* * *

Morgan ran his hand along the doorframe and let out a sigh, keeping it as restrained as he could. He was glad Hotch was the one doing the talking, because he wasn’t entirely sure he could make it through an entire conversation with _Section Chief Jason Bale_ without committing murder, but being the one to go through Spencer’s room was… daunting, to say the least.

_He’s not here anymore. It doesn’t matter._

Morgan took a quick breath and punched in the code he’d been given, waiting for the steel bars to slide up. He watched the simple room slowly enter his field of vision, no longer obstructed by the gate—tan walls, one bed with tan sheets, one tan pillow, a tan dresser possessing all of two drawers, and a prison-esque, stainless steel toilet—and then he stepped in. He walked over to the bed and lifted the pillow, finding Spencer’s book exactly where he was told it would be.

 _Spencer doesn’t have anything else._ But that didn’t kill the curiosity welling up, and Morgan approached the nearby dresser, pulling out the bottom drawer and finding three sets of gray scrubs just like the ones Spencer had been wearing when he first arrived.

Shaking his head, Morgan opened the next drawer up and found it empty. _Of course. He doesn’t own anything. Why even—_ He cut off his own question, immediately realizing the answer. _Incentive_. _It reminds him, and all the other geniuses, that they could have things to put in their drawers, they just have to do a special job first._

Disgusted, Morgan shut the drawer and took another look around. He didn’t really know what he had been expecting. Seriously, did he think he was going to walk into Spencer’s room and find some obvious, organized evidence of all the kid had been through sitting on display?

Though, if Morgan were being completely honest, he would say the lack of evidence was evidence in and of itself. How could someone live in the same room for _twelve years_ and not leave a trace of themselves anywhere? Had Spencer never gotten bored and picked at the paint? Or tried to do some kind of gymnastics to get his blood pumping, only to accidentally wind up with scuff marks on the walls and footprints on the ceiling?

Morgan let out a soft sigh and tucked Spencer’s book against his stomach, half hiding it in his jacket. Not that he didn’t have permission to take it, but it was one of the only things Spencer had to his name, and it just… it just needed to be treated with some kind of reverence.

_Focus. This isn’t the only thing you came here for._

Morgan left the cell block, briefly considering an inspection of the occupied cells, and then he started down the hall toward what he knew to be the library. Thankfully, it was close enough to the elevators that he could pretend he’d gotten lost, and even without them, he wasn’t too far from Spencer’s block. He could come up with an excuse one way or the other.

_Pretty Boy, I wish I had your eidetic memory right now._

Spencer had used that wonderful brain of his to draw a map of his floor from memory, and Morgan had studied it obsessively, but his memory was far from photographic.

_No. Don’t think about that. You’re a professional. You know how to memorize a map, and you know what you’re doing._

Morgan didn’t know what it was about the ICAP building—maybe all the geniuses, maybe knowing he didn’t have the upper hand, maybe the smug look on Section Chief Bale’s face when he started talking to Hotch—but the whole building just threw him off his game.

_I should ask Pretty Boy if there’s some sort of… psychological setup behind that._

It would make sense. From the steel walls, laminate flooring, and fluorescent lights alone, he couldn’t help but feel he was in some top-secret lab from a sci-fi movie. There was a certain… pressure exuded by his surroundings, a certain authority that dared outsiders to question the precise order maintained within the walls of the building.

Morgan shook it off and walked into the library, discreetly scanning the room as he crossed to the bookshelf. There were two guards—one posted at either end of the room—but Morgan simply flashed his badge. As far as they knew, he wasn’t anywhere he wasn’t supposed to be, so he let the assumption stand between him and any unwanted questions, and he got down to business.

Morgan idly ran his finger along the book spines, skimming the titles as he prepared a precautionary lie in the back of his mind. He glanced around the room—it was still empty, but according to Garcia, it wasn’t going to stay that way for long—and then he got back to browsing the titles.

 _Geeze. Is there anything here that isn’t a textbook?_ Morgan found one such book even as he had the thought, a slight frown curling the corner of his mouth as he pulled it out. _To Kill a Mockingbird. Huh._ He heard footsteps behind him, but he ignored them, opening the book and leafing through it.

Morgan stopped suddenly and grabbed his pocket as if he had just received a text. He tucked _To Kill a Mockingbird_ under his arm with _Love Conquers All_ and fished his phone out, sliding it open. There was no actual text, of course, but there was a small chip that he slipped out as he closed and re-pocketed the device. Of course, he had gotten his arms very twisted up with all that maneuvering, so it was relatively easy to slip the chip under the paper inside the back cover of _To Kill A Mockingbird._

Morgan turned around to leave, adjusting his shirt. He glanced up enough to see a young girl sitting on the couch, and he dusted himself off. Only, after he brushed the shirt twice, he dusted in the wrong direction. Then he slipped his thumb between his pinky and ring fingers, stroking his cheek twice like he was trying to clear away dust or tears or both, walking toward the exit all the while.

Morgan returned to the hall, continuing to the elevators and hitting the button to summon a lift. No big deal, just him getting sidetracked on the way back from Spencer’s room. Hotch and Bale were probably done talking, Morgan would arrive with the book, he and Hotch would leave, and all was well that ended well.

Just, you know, with a chip inserted in the hardcover of a book and a genius on the receiving end of a cryptic, signed message from Garcia.

 _That’s just not right._ Morgan refrained from sighing, watching the numbers above the elevator slowly climb. _She didn’t even get a book. She just sat down and stared at the wall. But it’s not like she knew I was making a drop-off, she just regularly does that. Anything to get out of those rooms; to get away from all the tan._

Morgan heaved a sigh and stepped onto the elevator.

_What a mess._

* * *

“Genius 3483, are you uncomfortable?”

Emily folded her arms beneath her cleavage and leveled a calm stare at the recently returned section chief. She reminded herself not to react, reminded herself why she had kept such a careful distance from Spencer throughout his stay at the BAU.

“Um, a little bit, ma’am.” Spencer shifted in his seat, scratching at his legs. “It’s—it’s okay, though.”

Strauss nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you understand why these forms are necessary?”

Spencer tugged on the hot pink button-down shirt he had layered over his AC/DC tee. “Um, I—I think so. Uh, it has to do with the investigation, right?”

Strauss didn’t nod, which both concerned and surprised Emily.

“It’s less about the investigation and more about making these accusations against ICAP stick.” Strauss held her hands up slightly. “I know Aaron has eight years of experience as a prosecutor, but I know several lawyers who have been in the game a lot longer. I contacted them while I was away, trying to get an idea of how we would approach the case after legal claims are made.”

Emily concealed her surprised at that, too, but she let some suspicion dance in her eyes. She didn’t want Strauss thinking she had been caught off-guard, but she was more than fine with Strauss knowing she was going to watch the section chief’s every move. _What are you up to?_

“Okay,” Spencer said softly. “So, um, what’s all this?”

Strauss pulled her reading glasses from her jacket and put them on, grabbing one of the many packets. “There are several things. This first one is a requisition for a tracking anklet.”

Spencer squirmed slightly. “I—I wouldn’t run, ma’am.”

 _We know, Spencer._ Emily swallowed the surge of anger.

Strauss shook her head calmly. “I don’t think you would. But a good lawyer will question where you’ve been, who you’ve met with, and whether you’ve been supervised. We need to be able to defeat every argument the defense makes, completely and decisively. Tracking your movements, however unnecessary, is one way we can do this.”

Emily stamped down her initial reaction, unable to deny the truth in the statement. “Garcia should have one, too,” she commented. “Especially because ICAP has her listed as a flight risk.”

Spencer nodded, looking between the two women. “I understand. I won’t fuss about wearing it.”

Strauss nodded and set the packet aside, grabbing the next one. “I appreciate your cooperation. I’m sure much of this feels like being punished for good behavior.”

Spencer shook his head, chewing on his lip.

Emily allowed herself to relax slightly, shifting her brain from a mode designed to protect Spencer into a mode designed to protect the case. Of course, it was still protecting Spencer, but it was a long-term protection, and if Strauss had other unfair ideas that could keep Spencer safe from ICAP indefinitely… well, Emily was going to help, not hinder.

“This is a list of people in the BAU I want you to start working with. I’ll have Agent Hotchner go over it and make any necessary changes, but it’s important that we have more than two emotionally distanced perspectives.” Strauss adjusted her glasses slightly and leaned back in her chair, letting out a quiet sigh. “Section Chief West, while a good friend and a phenomenal agent, is known for her overly caring nature. I know she took to you quickly, and that’s wonderful, but it’s something that will be used against us at every possible turn.”

Spencer wet his lips and reached out cautiously. “May I see the list?”

Strauss handed the envelope across the desk, sitting in silence as Spencer pulled out the sheets and sped through them. She made brief eye contact with Emily, and while Emily wasn’t Strauss’ biggest fan, she acknowledged what Strauss was trying to do and offered an affirmative nod to show her support.

Spencer put the papers away and handed the envelope back. “Thank you,” he said quietly, fidgeting in his chair. “I… I, um… don’t really know what I’m supposed to do with those people to, um, to help the case.”

Strauss nodded her head, completely understanding, which earned more brownie points from Emily. “I want you to work with them and consult on cases outside of the ones Agent Hotchner’s team handles. If Genius 4381 is willing, I would like to have her do the same.”

It took a moment for Emily to register Strauss was talking about Garcia, but Spencer simply nodded and waited for Strauss to keep going.

“You know why ICAP places such heavy restraints on geniuses and their contact with the outside world, correct?” Strauss folded her arms on her desk and leaned forward slightly, meeting Spencer’s eyes.

Spencer offered a jerky, almost nervous nod. “Yeah, um—because we’re so smart, we could manipulate the general population into doing what we want. Or at least, that’s the theory.”

Strauss offered a nod of her own, significantly more controlled and dignified. “Exactly. That’s something else the defense is going to use against us. They’ll try and claim you’ve manipulated Agent Hotchner’s team, first into sympathizing with you, then into sympathizing with geniuses as a whole.” Strauss held up a finger, and if Emily didn’t know better, she would have said she saw a faint smile tugging at the corner of Strauss’ mouth. “We have some advantages. One, this is the BAU. If anybody knows how to predict and resist manipulation, it’s profilers. Two, if we can get you working with more and more profilers and agents, the probability that you’re manipulating all of them decreases.”

Spencer nodded enthusiastically, his hand shooting up as if to ask permission to speak.

Oh. Wait.

He _was_ asking for permission to speak.

“Yes?” Strauss asked, arching a brow slightly.

“Could I make a suggestion, ma’am?”

Strauss nodded and listened.

Spencer cleared his throat and scratched at his legs a little faster, clearly nervous and excited in equal measure. “Um, it might be beneficial to reach out to various police departments I’ve worked with since coming to the BAU. I know, um, I know my behavior hasn’t been, um… stellar… but a combination of good and bad reports will be much more believable than entirely positive feedback, and, um, going on the assumption that this case will attract a lot of national attention, having the input of everyday, blue-collar workers and small-town heroes could be seen as more valuable to the public than the opinion of bureaucrats.” He rubbed the back of his neck a few times and then started scratching there. “Um, depending on how far the case against ICAP goes, um, my suggestion could apply to police departments where any geniuses have worked.” He cleared his throat, scratching down his neck and then going after his legs again. “Um, may I, um… make… another suggestion?”

Strauss gestured to the space between them. “By all means.”

Spencer nodded and swallowed. “Um, it might also be beneficial to get statements from geniuses. I think… I think people would be surprised how many of us… aren’t all that manipulative. Most…” He was clearly more off-put by his second suggestion than his first. “Um… most of us have been isolated for so long, we’re… um, we just… don’t care about a lot anymore. I, um… before I started… with…”

Strauss pursed his lips slightly, unsure of what to do, and she looked to Emily for help.

Emily dropped her arms and stepped forward, pulling a chair up next to Spencer and sitting down. “You were given permission to make a suggestion, Spencer.”

Spencer chewed on his lips and nodded, eyes misting up. “I…” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck again. “Um, I just think… that if people knew… if they could see that geniuses aren’t angry or malicious or…” He chewed on his lip for a moment, sniffed, and dropped his head to stare at the floor. “We’re just tired. If there were angry geniuses, they were put down a long time ago. Those of us who are left, just… we just don’t want to be where we are anymore.” He glanced up for a fraction of a second. “I know—I know that sounds like… all the more reason to do anything to get out, because we _do_ want to escape, but… for a lot of us… we don’t see ourselves ever getting out… alive… and if…” He let out a frustrated noise and pressed his hands to his face, muttering unintelligibly under his breath.

Emily reached out and put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder, squeezing once before returning her hand to her lap. “Spencer, it’s okay. Just tell Chief Strauss what you wanted to tell her.”

Spencer whimpered quietly, but then he nodded, and after another moment of silence and sniffling, he finally spat it out. “Most of us have attempted suicide multiple times. People don’t do that when they think they can escape some other way. If geniuses were sitting in ICAP, plotting ways to get out, scheming so we could make our lives a little more tolerable, a lot more of us would be able to hold on. But… the truth is, we’ve accepted that we’re never getting out, and that means the only escape is…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It might hurt the case more than it would help it. But… I—I think it should be considered.”

Strauss looked at Spencer for a long time, sparing Emily a brief glance, and then she slid her chair back. She pulled a legal pad and pen from her desk drawer and prepared to write. “Genius 4383, do you think you could tell me a little about your experience with this?”

Emily opened her mouth to protest, seeing no logical reason for that information to be shared, but Spencer nodded his head slightly.

“Yeah, um… about ten years ago… I was on a new medication, and the side effects were bad, and… and it was my mom’s birthday, and I just… I really missed her, and…” Spencer squirmed in place for a few moments, fingers clawing at his thigh again. “Then, about two years later, I, um, I made a friend… but we talked too much, and they took—took her away. So, I tried again, and, um, they put me on more medicine, but it just made things worse. It wasn’t something… medicine could fix. I just… didn’t want to be alone anymore. For a while after that, I was kinda okay. I worked on cases, and it kinda felt like I got a glimpse of the outside world, but… I knew they were never going to let me out, and I… it went from being helpful to being painful… something to remind me about all the things I would never have, and I just… I just didn’t want to be there anymore… so, um… I tried one more time. That was… four years ago, I think.”

Strauss continued writing for several moments after Spencer finished speaking, her head nodding a few times as she expanded the information in front of her. “So,” she started, scratching down a few more things and then raising her eyes to Spencer. “Out of the three attempts, two of them were triggered entirely by your situation. You didn’t try to break you and your friend out of ICAP, and you didn’t try to escape on your own. Both times, you deemed it pointless to try, and you felt you had to escape some other way.”

Spencer nodded wearily, wiping at his eyes, but he seemed a little lighter when he looked up at Strauss. “I _do_ have depression… and it played a part, which I’m sure the defense will mention, but… but depression often leads to suicidal ideation because it traps you inside your own head, your own body… it makes you feel like things are never going to get better, like you’ll always choke on air, like waking up will always be a battle, until you just can’t take it anymore, and you…” He shook his head a few times. “Being in ICAP was different, but… not by much. You have no reason to wake up in the morning, you have no one and nothing to live for, and you know—or at least you _feel_ —like that’s just how it’s going to be for… forever.”

Emily reached out and squeezed Spencer’s shoulder a second time, keeping her contact brief. _Oh, Spencer… I wish I could travel back in time, if only to tell you it would get better. If I could do nothing else for you, I wish I could have told you not to give up._

Strauss removed her reading glasses and set them down on her notepad. “Genius 4383, do you need to take a break?”

Spencer ran his hands through his hair and nodded, taking a deep breath with eyes screwed shut. “Yes, please, ma’am.”

Strauss nodded to Emily. “I assume you’ll accompany him to his room?”

“Yes, of course.” Emily nodded back and got to her feet, returning her chair to its place along the wall. “Spencer?”

Spencer got up, taking another deep breath, and started toward the door. He didn’t look at either of them.

“Agent Prentiss, if you could get this to Agent Hotchner, it would be much appreciated. The sooner this gets approved and set in motion, the better.”

Emily took the envelope and nodded again to indicate her understanding of the order. Then she turned and followed Spencer out into the hall, giving him a small smile when he caught her eye.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

Spencer nodded, sniffing quietly. “Yeah. I just… wasn’t prepared, I guess.” He wiped his eyes and gestured in the general direction of the elevators. “Um, could we go get some coffee?”

Emily smiled and started to walk. “Sure. Just let me drop this off, and we can hit that little café on the corner.”

Spencer smiled back, his expression significantly weaker than hers, and he shuffled along beside her. “Thank you.”

Emily rounded the corner and pressed the arrow to summon the elevator, folding her arms across her stomach and idly tapping the manila envelope against her side. “I bet you’re missing West, huh? I know I am.”

To her surprise, Spencer shook his head, his face scrunching up as he considered the suggestion. “No, actually. I prefer Section Chief Strauss.”

“Really?” Emily arched her brows just as the doors opened, and she stepped onto the lift. “Why?”

Spencer joined her, immediately leaning against the wall across from her. He slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “Section Chief West is very nice, but… there’s a certain safety in realism. You likely don’t recognize it because you’re not a dependent, but it’s the same kind of psychology that makes children crave boundaries.” He shrugged again, following her when the elevator stopped on the BAU floor. “Chief Strauss is your boss, but she can’t determine anything about your life outside of work. It makes sense that you, someone who is in control of their normal environment, balks when faced with someone like her. But decisions made by Chief Strauss directly impact whether I spend the rest of my life in a cage or not. Chief West is pleasant to be around, but she can be a bit of an optimist. Chief Strauss is more controlled and distanced, but I know she isn’t going to try and shoot for goals she can’t achieve and, subsequently, incur consequences that come back on me.”

By the time Spencer was done speaking, they were already on their way back to the elevator, the envelope having been left on Hotch’s unattended desk.

Emily blinked, not bothering to hide the expression of revelation that crossed her features. “I never thought about that. You’re right.” It struck her, not for the first time, how little control Spencer had over what happened to him, and it left a sick churning in her gut.

Spencer flashed a weak smile. “Thanks for letting me ramble. It, uh… it helps me get out of my head a little when I do, and intellectual conversation always… well, just thank you. I feel better.” He rubbed the back of his head, briefly scratching again before dropping his hand.

“You’re welcome.” Emily gave him a soft smile, once again summoning the elevator with the press of a button. “How about these new rules? How are you feeling about that?”

Spencer pressed his lips together and nodded, swallowing hard. “It’ll take some getting used to, but… again, it’s good to see the person who will have the biggest impact on where I end up taking this seriously.” He stepped back to let someone out of the elevator and then followed Emily inside. “Thinking about the long-term logistics, doing what she can to make sure this doesn’t come back to bite us after a couple years in court.” He looked down at his shoes, scuffing the black converse against the floor, and a little smile pulled at his mouth again. “It feels good.”

Emily smiled just as the elevator dinged and opened up on the ground floor. “Good.”

Spencer laughed softly, but his eyes were still downcast. Still, despite the odd contradiction in body language, he seemed to be happier than when they had entered the office earlier that morning.

It wasn’t much, but it was something, and with a long, arduous battle against an entire FBI subdivision looming on the horizon… something was enough. If they wanted to make it from one day to the next, it had to be.

“So, what kind of coffee are you gonna get?”

* * *

Hotch threw the glass doors out of his way and crossed the bullpen in record time, not bothering to turn on the lights.

_“Agent—Agent Hotchner? Can you come to—to the BAU? Please? I need you.”_

Grabbing the door handle, Hotch gave it a hard twist and let himself in, casting a frantic look around the small bedroom. “Spencer?” He took two steps inside and caught a glimpse of stocking feet poking out from the corner between Spencer’s desk and bed.

“A-Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch closed the door and rushed back across the room, crouching down by the foot of the bed. “Spencer, what’s wrong?”

Spencer looked up at him, eyes glassy and red and bloodshot, quiet sobs still shaking his shoulders. His lips were wet, his nose was red, there were tissues all over the floor, and he seemed determined to fit his body into a space entirely too small for it.

“Spencer, what’s—”

Spencer was suddenly pushing off the wall, throwing himself at Hotch and winding his arms around the older man’s frame, latching on. Hotch just barely managed to keep from being knocked over, one hand grabbing the bed while the arm of the other wrapped around Spencer’s waist. Spencer gripped the back of Hotch’s jacket for dear life, crying against his chest, trembling so violently Hotch actually stopped to recall if there had been any notes about past seizures in Spencer’s file.

“Spencer.” Hotch slowly eased himself into a more comfortable sitting position, placing his freed hand against Spencer’s back and rubbing hard. “You have to tell me what’s wrong.”

Spencer shook his head violently, gasping for air in between cries, sobs returning full force and sounding twice as bad as the ones from the phone call.

“Okay, okay, shh. Shh, it’s okay. Shh…” Hotch glanced upward, grasping at the fringes of several ideas on how to move forward, stroking Spencer’s hair all the while. “Okay, try and take deep breaths. Can you do that?”

Spencer nodded and tried to do what Hotch suggested, but even though he managed deeper inhales, his exhales were stuttered and choppy.

“Do I need to call 911?”

Spencer shook his head, shrinking in on himself with a shuddering cry.

“Okay. Okay, it’s alright.” Hotch stroked Spencer’s hair again, rubbing his back and shoulders in an attempt to get him to relax. “Shh, just keep breathing. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Hotch didn’t know what else he could say. He couldn’t reason with panic—no one could—and there was no slideshow or speech to give on why Spencer needed to calm down. Even if Hotch wanted to attempt reasoning, he couldn’t, because he had no idea what set Spencer off in the first place; that was assuming something _had_ set him off, that the anxiety wasn’t just acting of its own accord.

“It’s okay, Spencer. Everything’s okay. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay.”

Spencer shuddered, shaking his head against Hotch’s chest. “I’m scared, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch felt the worry contort his face, but Spencer couldn’t see him, so he didn’t bother to fix it. “What are you scared of?”

Spencer choked out another sob and drew his legs in close, curling up in Hotch’s arms. “I don’t want to go back.”

Hotch felt his face twist again, the concern steadily increasing. “Spencer… are you talking about ICAP?”

Spencer nodded a few times, sniffing hard and letting out a few more cries.

Worry steadily increasing, Hotch squinted at the wall across from him. Still, despite his bewilderment, he didn’t risk asking questions and triggering another wave of catastrophic uncertainty. “Spencer, you aren’t going back. Okay? You’re not going back to ICAP.”

Spencer shook his head, readjusting his hold on Hotch’s coat. “What if the case isn’t strong enough? What if we don’t get enough evidence? What if nobody cares enough to do anything about it? What if—”

“Spencer, you can’t think like that.” Hotch shook his head, rubbing Spencer’s shoulders. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“But what if it _does?_ ” Spencer’s voice was congested and thick with unshed tears. “What if I mess up? What if I make a mistake that’s too big to overlook, and they use it against me in court, and they come and take me away, and—”

“Spencer.”

“We’re supposed to meet at Rossi’s tomorrow night, and I’m supposed to talk about the experiments, but I don’t know if I can, and what if I can’t, and what if it’s important, what if we try to plan more steps tomorrow, but I—”

“Spencer!” Hotch gave him a firm shake before immediately settling back into a hug. “Stop it. I will not let that happen. If we need to set up a situation like the one with Michael and Julia, we will. We’ll get you and Garcia off the grid. Somehow, someway, we’ll make it work. Okay? Everything is going to be okay. No matter what. I promise.”

Spencer sniffed, whispering brokenly. “I won’t go back, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch didn’t pretend he didn’t know exactly what Spencer meant by that. “That won’t be necessary. You aren’t going back, Spencer.” He replaced the confusion and frustration on his face with calm and then put some space between them, trying to look in Spencer’s eyes. “Do you hear me?”

Spencer nodded miserably, his expression very clearly saying he didn’t believe the assurances he was being given. He dragged his arm over his eyes and slumped against the bed, shoulders shaking just enough to let Hotch know he wasn’t quite done crying.

“What do you need, Spencer?” Hotch posed the question gently, and at a puzzled look from Spencer, he explained himself in equal softness. “What do you need to stop panicking? Do you need to get out of the building? Do you need a movie or music to distract you? Do you need to go to IHOP and drown your sorrows in pancake syrup?”

Spencer actually let out a feeble laugh at that, and while the expression didn’t stick, light still lingered in his eyes even when the turn of his lips was gone. “IHOP?”

“Sure. We could be there in twenty minutes, and they’re open twenty-four hours.” Hotch offered him a light smile. “It’s half past three in the morning. This isn’t the time to talk things out or process emotions or come up with solutions. This is the time to put anxiety, and then ourselves, to bed with distractions.” He raised an eyebrow slightly, giving Spencer a questioning look. “Is comfort food a good distraction?”

Spencer thought about it for a moment, wiped his eyes, and reached for the tissue box on the floor nearby. “You… should be getting sleep. You have to work in the morning.”

“That’s irrelevant.” Hotch sat in silence while Spencer blew his nose a few times, heart clenching at the younger man’s inability to fully catch his breath. “Do you want to go to IHOP, Spencer?”

Spencer sniffed and nodded his head, wiping his eyes again despite how raw they looked, and a feeble smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, please.”

Hotch got to his feet and held out a hand. “Come on, then.”

Spencer took the hand and struggled to get up, the tiny space doing him no favors as he fought to untangle himself. But he managed, and then it was just a matter of slipping on some shoes and a hoodie.

Hotch waited by the door, and when Spencer was ready, he let them both out and closed up behind them. “Come on, then.”

Spencer trailed after him, staying at least a pace or two behind. He still didn’t see himself on equal footing with the agents around him, and Hotch had noticed the habit was one of the more subtle reminders that Spencer had over a decade of trauma to recover from.

Sure, Spencer was getting better. He didn’t scratch as much, he didn’t have nearly as many mood swings without the Seroquel in his system, he had learned how to hold his tongue when he absolutely needed to—the list went on—but he was far from recovered. In light of all the improvements, it could become incredibly easy to forget Spencer was still recuperating, but Hotch did his best to keep those little things in mind.

It made him a little less startled when he got the frantic midnight calls reminding him that—

No, Spencer didn’t trust the team; he didn’t truly trust anybody, not even himself.

No, Spencer didn’t see himself as he truly was; his self-esteem was all but non-existent.

No, Spencer didn’t stop having anxiety; it was better than it used to be, and it was steadily improving, but in all likelihood, it was a lifelong illness he would need help managing.

No, Spencer didn’t see himself as a member of the team; he saw himself as a resource.

No, Spencer didn’t understand he should have had rights; he knew he wanted them, but he thought they were far more than he deserved.

No, Spencer wasn’t okay. He was better—thank _God_ he was better, he was _so much_ better—but he wasn’t okay, and letting him fall under the radar because he wasn’t a walking, talking hot mess could have disastrous consequences.

“Agent Hotchner?” Spencer hid his hands in the center pocket of his hoodie, shoulders hunching as he curled in on himself.

Hotch glanced over at him, pulling his car keys from his pocket as they entered the parking garage. “Yes?”

Spencer twisted his lips and seemed to consider his words for a second, and then he said, in all seriousness, “I bet you can’t order the rooty-tooty-fresh-n-fruity with a straight face.”

Hotch didn’t even try to dampen the smile that parted his lips. “Twenty bucks says you’re wrong.”

Spencer frowned slightly. “I don’t have any money.”

“That’s alright.” Hotch waved it off. “When you lose, I’ll just take the money from Morgan.”

Spencer thought about that for a moment, and then he smiled. “You’re on.”

Hotch smiled back. It was important to remember that Spencer had a long way to go, but it was equally important to celebrate the small victories.

“I’ll even order extra strawberries.”

Spencer laughed.

Hotch did, too.

Making it from one day to the next was definitely a small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that was a Tim Hawkins reference there at the end. If you want to have a good laugh, get on YouTube and look up, 'Tim Hawkins rooty-tooty-fresh-n-fruity.' You won't be sorry.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a Numb3rs fan, I think you'll appreciate the cameo in this chapter. There's also another genius from another show who is mentioned (and has been before) but not by name. He may or may not be named in later chapters.

**October 23, 2005; 1:14 AM**

Hotch looked at his watch for the hundredth time, shook his head, and let out a long, weary sigh. He leaned back in the stiff chair and let his head roll to the side, looking at the stack of case files sitting on top of outdated health magazines and some pamphlets on heart disease and diabetes. Briefly, he considered taking a look at the contents, but the idea was short-lived. As much as he hated it, there was nothing he could do but wait. All the interviews had been conducted, he had read all the files three times over, and the rest of the team was back at the BAU with even more information, scrambling to put the pieces together.

Hotch heaved a sigh and rubbed his face a few times, staring up at the florescent lights and trying to stay awake. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been so burned out, and the incessant buzzing in his pocket was sawing through his very last nerve.

When Hotch was at work, he tried to be _at work._ That way, when he was at home, he could be _at home._ It worked fairly well, and with the ICAP investigation and everything going on with Spencer, it was maybe a little easier than it should have been to put his marital problems out of his head. Of course, he couldn’t exactly ignore it when the divorce papers he had been served were at the bottom of his stack of case files and she kept calling over and over and—

Hotch grabbed his phone from its holder and flipped it open, pressing it to his ear with a lowly growled, “ _What_ , Haley?”

“Woah. Trouble in paradise?”

Hotch took a moment to process Rossi’s voice, and then he let out a soft sigh, some of the tension melting out of his shoulders. “Dave… have you—” He cleared his throat. “Have you come up with anything?”

“We’re still trying to get a warrant for the rest of the ICAP building. Strauss is talking to the Director right now, but it’s genius rights against matters of national security. It’s… difficult.”

Hotch snorted and stretched his legs out in front of him, staring at them. “No kidding.”

Rossi didn’t say anything for a moment, but his voice eventually returned with a new topic. “How’s the kid?”

Hotch shook his head, tired eyes perpetually glazed over. “I haven’t heard anything. He’s been in surgery for…” he glanced at his watch again and did some simple math, “…three and a half hours.”

Rossi heaved a sigh of his own and, after another moment of silence, tried to get some more information. “What exactly happened?”

Hotch rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, Dave, it…” He shook his head with another sigh. “It all happened so fast. I only left the room for a couple minutes, maybe five.” He sighed again, trying to quiet the voice in his head that said their situation was his own stupid fault. “Next thing I know, my right ear is ringing from the two gunshots fired less than twenty feet away.”

Hotch looked down at his hands—at his sleeves, stained with blood, red and pink and messy—and blinked slowly.

“Aaron, you couldn’t have known.”

“But I _could_ have.” Hotch almost snapped the words, but he didn’t quite have the energy to be angry with himself anymore. His voice softened, but his resolve didn’t. “I should have.”

“We had no idea they’d be this reckless.” Rossi’s voice wasn’t hard or cold, but it wasn’t uncertain, either. He was no less confident of his assertions than Hotch was of his. “They came out of left field.”

“They don’t have anything to lose anymore.” Hotch crossed his legs at the ankles and continued to stare at them, bouncing his foot slightly. “So, what are they going to do next?”

“Well…” Rossi gathered his words. “What changed?” He paused, as if considering his own suggestion. “Let’s go back further. Not just the moments before the shots were fired."

Hotch sighed again and tried to go back to the hours leading up to the one he was in. “Okay, let me think…”

**October 22, 2005; 2:28 PM**

“Genius #7138296-3199.” Hotch dropped a folder on table and leaned over it, bracing his arms against the table. He stared the young man down, letting the clinical appearance of the interrogation room work in his favor as he implemented intimidation as a tactic. “Dallas Jackson.”

Dallas—a mere two months into his twentieth year of living—stared down at his lap with the expression of a dead man. His eyes were vacant, the green hues much more muted than the vibrant, almost jarring shade from his file photo. His lips were completely relaxed but not parted, his breathing was even and uninterrupted, and he didn’t fidget even once as he entered his seventh hour of interrogation.

“My name is Aaron Hotchner. I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.” Hotch spoke in a crisp, businesslike tone, maintaining his professional stance until he could figure out what Dallas would best respond to. “I understand ICAP has been questioning you, but there are some interesting circumstances surrounding this case, and my team has been given jurisdiction.”

Dallas didn’t respond. He almost looked like he was in a trance of some kind. Knowing ICAP, it wouldn’t surprise Hotch if Dallas was half out of his mind and high on drugs he didn’t need.

“Do you prefer Dallas or 3199?” Hotch asked, recalling Garcia and Spencer and the way they felt about outsiders using their names.

Still no response, and Hotch didn’t want to come across as soft until he knew more, so there would be no genius etiquette for the time being.

“Dallas, then.” Hotch opened the folder in front of him and looked over the pictures of the demolished building. “You’ve made quite the mess, Dallas. They’re talking about retiring you.”

Dallas might have shifted at that, but it also might have been Hotch’s imagination.

“I won’t presume to understand a genius, but I don’t think you want to be retired. Retirement is a rather… permanent outcome, wouldn’t you agree?” Hotch interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on the photos, unsurprised when Dallas didn’t answer the question. “I think there are a lot of things a genius would do to stay out of retirement.”

Dallas moved his head ever so slightly, his chin lifting just enough for Hotch to know he was listening. Other than that, nothing.

“If you cooperate with me, I can make sure you aren’t retired, Dallas.” Hotch held back a smirk at the thought of how ICAP would react to that. “I was given that authority by the Director himself.”

Dallas moved his head the tiniest bit more, but he still sat with dead eyes and a bowed head.

“Dallas…” Hotch softened his tone a bit and eased into the chair the previous interrogator had used. “I just want to find out the truth about what happened this morning.” He paused, tilted his head a little to catch the vacant, faded eyes, and then he spoke again. “People were hurt. People were _killed,_ and I don’t think you wanted that. I don’t think you wanted any of this.” He paused again to let his words sink in, gauging the young man’s body language. “I think your silence is a response you can’t control—” he almost said ‘conditioned response,’ but that would have been a dead giveaway, and they hadn’t been given _that_ much seniority on the case, “—and I think you want to help, but you don’t know how. Or maybe you don’t think you can.”

Dallas kept staring at his lap, but his shoulders moved a little, a subtle display of discomfort that had been absent up to that point.

Hotch considered Dallas for several moments, then he glanced down at the photos again, and then he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Okay, Dallas. Let’s come at this from a different angle: I’ll tell you what I think happened—” with many euphemisms and codes, because ICAP guards were standing right outside, “—and we’ll see if you feel up to helping me fine-tune my theory.”

Dallas still refused to say anything, but Hotch was alright with that. If Dallas was even half as traumatized as Spencer, it would take more than a few quick words and evidentially unsupported assurances to open him up.

“Let’s see…” Hotch flipped to the first page of the report and tapped the sheet. “At 7:32 AM, you set off a bomb on the fifteenth floor of the ICAP building…”

 

**October 22, 2005; 8:03 AM**

“What kind of game are they playing?”

Hotch kept his arms folded over his chest but lifted one of his hands to his teeth, chewing briefly on his thumbnail. “We expected some kind of retaliation after we took full custody of Spencer. This could be it.”

Rossi shook his head and gestured vaguely to the television screen. “But they’re completely unrelated. What’s the message here? You took one of our geniuses, so we’re gonna… blow some of ours up?”

Hotch skimmed the text scrolling across the bottom of the screen and then looked at the smoking building again. “I don’t know. We should get a victim list as soon as possible. They might have attacked someone close to Spencer, maybe to—”

“Hotch, did you see the news?” Morgan burst into the room with a disheveled Spencer on his heels. Morgan noticed the screen before anyone could answer his question and continued. “We were getting coffee when it came on.”

“They’re gonna lock the whole thing down, Agent Hotchner!” Spencer was plainly trying not to shout, but he was just as plainly failing, and his fingers periodically traveled up to his mouth to be chewed. “They must have made one of the geniuses do it so they can link the bomb to the genius, and then they’ll have a valid reason to lock down the entire facility until the investigation is over. All the files, all the computers, all the geniuses—everything! And they can and _will_ make the investigation drag on for _months._ ”

Rossi looked at Hotch. “Well, now we know what it has to do with retaliation.”

Hotch held out a hand toward all three members of his team. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. It’s unlikely this explosion is unrelated, but it’s still possible. We don’t have a list of casualties or injuries, no suspects have been named yet, and no action has been called for.”

“True, but we want to be proactive about this.” Rossi gestured vaguely to the screen. “We don’t want to react to them any more than we have to.”

Morgan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ll swing by Rossi’s place to see how Garcia’s doing. Maybe she knows something about this.”

Rossi started moving before Morgan could. “No, let me check. If they’re watching us, and you go to my house right after they set off a bomb, it’ll be suspicious. I don’t want them taking Garcia when we’re not looking.” He gave Spencer an encouraging pat on the arm as he breezed past, halfway out the door when he called, “I’ll let you know if we find anything out.”

Hotch nodded but said nothing, still watching the news footage. “Spencer, did you know any geniuses who specialized in explosives? Even if you didn’t speak with them, were they on your block for any period of time?”

Spencer thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “No. I heard of a couple, but I never met any, and I can tell you none of them were on that floor. I could still write down their names.” He fidgeted nervously in place, shifting from one foot to the other.

Morgan folded his arms over his chest. “They might have picked someone who wouldn’t usually mess with explosives. We have to remember, ICAP is preparing for a court case just as much as we are.”

“That’s assuming this was planned by ICAP. We need to maintain objectivity until we know more.” Hotch slowly lowered the hand he had been using to gesture, both arms refolding over his chest. “However, assuming this _was_ them, they could be trying to show how untrustworthy and dangerous geniuses are. Something to make the public doubt they can ever really know what a genius is capable of until it’s too late.”

“Then we need to get on top of this,” Spencer rushed, a renewed panic in his voice. “The FBI has to, I don’t know, make a statement or something. You have to make sure ICAP doesn’t retire the people involved, and the geniuses at the hospital have to be interviewed as witnesses, and we have to—”

“Spencer.” Hotch turned to look at him, speaking steadily but softly. “Deep breaths.”

Spencer tried to do as he was told, but his hands were jittering and his eyes were wide with fear. “I don’t wanna go back, Agent Hotchner.” He shook his head rapidly, tears welling up and clinging to his lashes. “I don’t wanna go back. I don’t wanna go back, please.”

Hotch and Morgan spoke in unison. “You aren’t.”

Spencer swallowed and glanced nervously at the screen again. He didn’t seem convinced, his hands still twitching and wringing each other and pulling on every colorful, odd, discordant piece of clothing on his frame.

“I’ll get in touch with Strauss.” Then, after a moment of thought, Hotch added, “I’ll call West, too. If we can get some higher-ups to side with us, we might be able to get some seniority on this case. It wouldn’t be the first time we worked a bombing, even if we normally only get involved once it’s serial.” Hotch wet his lips and thought for another moment or two. “Spencer, if you’re right, our suspect is going to be a genius. Can we use the pretense of finding more bombs?” He looked at Spencer for an answer, expanding a bit when he saw the confusion on Spencer’s face. “Can we insist that a genius would never orchestrate something so simple as a single-bomb incendiary attack?”

Spencer thought about it for a second, cocking his head one way and then the other. “I think that could definitely work. ICAP might come up with that themselves, actually. Depending on the record the genius has, you might be able to say you want to make sure that a useful genius isn’t being framed by a more delinquent one, as that would be a waste of government resources.”

It once again hit Hotch—as it so often did, in the oddest of moments, when he least expected it—that Spencer still saw himself as expendable. He didn’t know how to justify his existence outside of usefulness.

Hotch simply offered a nod. “Alright.” He gestured toward the TV. “They have a suspect in custody, but they’re unnamed. We need to find out who they are and get on this immediately.”

Morgan jerked a thumb over his shoulder and started walking backwards. “I’ll talk to JJ. She’s gotten pretty good at weaseling information out of ICAP, and she might be able to do some damage control with the press.”

“Good plan.” Hotch dismissed him with brief wave, looking back at the television screen and the black smoke rising into the sky. “Is Emily in the bullpen?”

“Yeah.” Morgan stopped in the doorway. “You want me to send her up?”

“Yes. I want to get to the explosion site as soon as possible.” Hotch was already pulling his phone out, ready to call in every favor he had ever been owed. “And I want her there with me when I go.”

Morgan gave a thumbs up and left the room.

Hotch dialed Strauss and put the phone to his ear, giving Spencer a small but genuine, almost self-satisfied smile. “Everything is going to be fine, Spencer. Trust me.”

Spencer bit down on his lip, hazel eyes wandering back to the television. “I do, Agent Hotchner.” He swallowed, both arms folding protectively over his middle. “I’m just… scared.”

“You’re allowed to be,” was all Hotch could say before the phone stopped ringing.

Spencer kept staring at the TV, gnawing on his lip with anxiety in his eyes.

 

**October 22, 2005; 3:29 PM**

“You didn’t run.” Hotch leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers and resting his hands on his stomach. “You didn’t try to hide from any of the surveillance cameras leading to the wing where you planted the bomb.” He tapped his thumbs together. “You essentially lit the fuse and waited to be arrested. That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”

Dallas swallowed but continued to keep his head down, hands dangling limply from where they were cuffed to the table. Goosebumps rose up and down his arms, the ICAP scrubs doing little to protect him from the chill of the interrogation room.

“You aren’t known for working with explosives. You aren’t known for violence at all, actually.” Hotch tilted his head almost curiously. “I’ve seen your file, Dallas.” He let that hang for a moment, examining Dallas’ body language, and then he elaborated. “I’ve seen your unredacted file.”

That got him a little shift, almost like a squirm, but nothing more.

“You killed seven geniuses, Dallas. One of them was only eleven years old.” Hotch pulled the photograph from the folder on the table and slid it across. “She was in four pieces, not including the bits too small to find.” He tapped the glossy print. “You did that, Dallas.”

Dallas shifted again, and when he breathed, it was a little more intentionally level than before. His jaw was clenched, the muscles clearly defined as his teeth ground together.

“Did you plan to do that, Dallas?” Hotch watched for a reaction, but Dallas didn’t give one. “Did you mean to kill that little girl?”

Dallas didn’t move, and for a moment, Hotch considered going harder, but he ultimately decided to back off. They would leave that line of questioning open, let the last question be something poignant and accusatory; something to hover overhead like a dark cloud while the interrogation continued.

“You targeted an interesting part of the building.” Hotch returned to his folder and flipped through the contents, stopping at a small-scale replica of the blueprints. “From what I understand, this is a very unique floor. There’s a lot of conspiracies and superstitions about what goes on there.” He slid the picture across the table to Dallas and then leaned back again. “In my experience, legends often have an origin in truth. Was there something in that wing you destroyed, Dallas?” He narrowed his gaze. “Something you didn’t want us to see?”

Dallas did something odd then. He sniffed. It was quick and dry, not the kind of sniffling that came with watery eyes, but maybe the kind that came with an inflated ego. Only Dallas didn’t show any signs of arrogance, and he had refrained from making any noise for the eight and a half hours leading up to that sniff. It could have been nothing, but with a subject so unresponsive, every detail had to be taken into account.

_Interesting._

“Well, Dallas, let me tell you what I already know, and you can decide whether or not you want to fill in my blanks. Hmm?” Hotch arched a brow and flipped to the next page in his folder. “We know of at least seven different projects running out of that wing…”

 

**October 22, 2005; 9:12 AM**

“…but even after spending almost ten years inside that facility, I have no idea what they are. Well, that’s not true. Well, it’s kind of true. Well—”

“Garcia.” Rossi held up a hand to stop her but made sure to keep a soft expression on his face. “Just… tell me what you know.”

Garcia nodded rapidly, half eager and half frazzled. “Right. Right, got it.” She slid over a bit and patted the couch next to her, gesturing to the monitors set up on his coffee table and chairs. “So, ICAP has 24 floors, each named after a letter of the Greek alphabet. This screen has the blueprints for fifteenth floor, Omicron. See anything weird?”

Rossi looked back and forth between the blueprints for the building as a whole and the individual floor plan. “It has an extra wing.” He could tell just from the way the layers and supports were arranged.

Garcia nodded her head. “You got it. Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Delta are all labs, garages, supercomputers, and so on. We do all our work there. They’re at the top, so if anything goes wonky, there’s no one in the floors above to get trapped, and there’s less weight on top of the damaged area. They changed the layout after 9/11.” She started to type again, working on something off to the side while the screens in front of Rossi remained unchanged. “Epsilon through Psi are floors where geniuses are actually held; each floor has seven wings for geniuses and one wing for faculty and recreation—the library, the gym, the breakroom, and so on—except Omicron. _Omicron_ has nine wings. Guess what got bombed?”

Rossi opened his mouth to reply.

“Bingo! Wings O7, O8, and O9, and here’s where things get spooky.”

Rossi arched a brow at her—it genuinely wouldn’t surprise him if she started talking about Wing O9 being haunted—and hoped she hadn’t lost sight of the objective.

“See, geniuses have this… not-so-unspoken theory about the ICAP building.” Garcia switched to a keyboard for the monitor on the coffee table, fingers flying from key to key as the blueprints started to shift. “There’s an unofficial twenty-fifth letter of the Greek alphabet—Sampi—and as you can see, there’s an unofficial basement on the blueprints that isn’t labelled or defined in any way. They didn’t even put the dimensions on here, so no one knows how big it really is unless they’ve been down there. But no one has.” She pointed to the portion of the screen dedicated to the basement. “I’ve never been there, I’ve never met anyone who went there, I’ve never heard of a project there—nothing. It’s like Sampi doesn’t exist, which it shouldn’t, but it _does._ ” She turned toward Rossi slightly and folded her hands in her lap, fingers tangled between each other, trying desperately to keep her from her from gesturing too enthusiastically. “Have you ever been in the building?”

Rossi shook his head, torn between increasing curiosity and wondering how likely it was the secret basement was related to the bombing fifteen floors up. _I’ve seen weirder things, and I’ve had a feeling from the beginning that this case was gonna take a slot in the Top Five Weirdest Cases I’ve Ever Worked._

“Well, if you ever go there, you’ll see there’s no button on the elevator to take you to Sampi.” Garcia grew more animated as she continued, clearly thrilled to have someone to share the story with. “Legend has it, if you have an access key, you can put the key in and hold the Omega button until it takes you all the way down.”

“Legend?” Rossi’s eyebrows show up.

Garcia looked a little embarrassed, but she didn’t stay that way for long, her hands waving excitedly. “It’s not—Look, there was a guy, a long time ago, who allegedly went down there once. He used to do tons of special jobs, so we figured it had something to do with that. He disappeared, like, two weeks later, and we never saw him again, but he had already spread some information by then.” She got back to her computers, pointing at the first screen with the floor plan for Omicron. “It’s been _theorized_ that the additional Omicron wing has something to do with Sampi. None of us have ever seen staff go in or out, and if there are geniuses being held there, they’re completely cut off from the rest of us, even if we’re on the same floor.”

Rossi frowned at that, leaning back on his couch. “We have thirteen dead and counting. If Wing O8 is supposed to be the breakroom and library, there shouldn’t have been many people in there. We know it was shift change, and they wouldn’t let geniuses out to use the facilities with all that chaos going on. Too easy for things to happen without being noticed, and they’re too careful for that.” He leaned in closer to the screen, scratching thoughtfully at his chin. “O7 would have had geniuses, but only a portion of O7 got hit. Most of the bodies were geniuses, not staff, so… it’s definitely possible for geniuses to have been in O9…”

“I don’t know what really went on in there, Agent Rossi.” Garcia sounded unusually somber, especially considering her pink sweatpants and white hoodie with glitter all over. “All I know is… ICAP has more to hide than some unfair treatment that civil rights activists can get mad about. You don’t euthanize people and refuse to share intel with other divisions of the FBI and potentially _blow up_ your own building to hide something like that.” She shook her head, rainbow waves falling over her shoulders. “It’s gotta be bigger than that.”

Rossi looked at the schematics again and slowly nodded, lips drawn into a grim line. “You’re right about that, kid.”

Rossi sighed and pulled his phone from his hip, mentally preparing himself for whatever might follow his call. He was just about to dial when he stopped, turning to look at the young woman on the couch—wide eyes trained on her screens, fingers flying, rainbow hair stubbornly falling back into her face no matter how many times she pushed it back—and he smiled.

“Hey.” Rossi nudged her on the arm and waited until she looked at him to continue. “You did a really good job, kid.”

Garcia blinked, stared for a moment, blinked some more, and started to move her mouth. “I, uh—oh, well, I—thanks, I mean—it’s nice to, um, to be helpful, and to—to have someone listen, you know, like all the way to the end and—yeah, thanks, I mean—just—just thanks.” She blushed and pushed her hair back, smiling to herself in that way children often did when they received the approval they were so desperate for. “Thanks.”

Rossi hummed quietly and looked back at his phone, punching the two and holding it down until Hotch’s ID showed up on his screen.

“Let’s rock and roll, kid.” Rossi held his fist out where Garcia could reach it.

Garcia looked at it for a moment, and then she bumped fists with him. “Most awesome, Sir Rossi. Most awesome.”

 

**October 22, 2005; 5:23 PM**

Hotch looked at his cell phone, taking a moment to reread the text and make sure he knew exactly what he had permission to do.

**JJ** _We have a green light to investigate ICAP as it relates back to the bombing ONLY. Still working on clearance for a full investigation._

“Dallas, I want to…” Hotch snapped his phone shut, “…talk to you about ICAP.”

Dallas stayed just as still as he had for the past several hours, eyes downward.

Hotch set his phone down on the table where Dallas could see it, and then he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He maintained his air of nonchalance, but truthfully, he was starting to get frustrated. He could read Dallas easily—probably more than Dallas realized; his face was so young and expressive—but that could only get him so far.

Hotch knew Dallas felt guilty about the people he had hurt, including the ICAP staff, though his guilt was significantly less intense in that area. He didn’t regret the damage he had done to the building. He wasn’t off-put by any of Hotch’s reiterating the chain of events, so that was most likely accurate, but Dallas seemed unsettled by the idea that Hotch knew a little bit of what ICAP did behind the scenes. Dallas kept tensing, almost imperceptibly, as if waiting for a trap to spring.

But that didn’t tell Hotch anything new.

_Well, maybe a new line of questioning can._

“What do you think ICAP is going to do to punish you for the bomb?”

Dallas didn’t do anything, and he didn’t seem afraid. Odd.

“Oh. Maybe they won’t, then. Though I do wonder why you would think that.” Hotch let the statement hang for a moment, and he caught the faintest shade of fear passing through Dallas’ eyes. “I’ve been given permission to investigate ICAP as it relates back to this case.” He let that linger, too, and then continued on. “I have several agents at the hospital where the geniuses are recovering, and everyone we’ve talked to says you stick to yourself more than other geniuses. I spoke with your psychiatrist, and she said you were antisocial. However…” Hotch uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his arms on the table and tilting his head down to get a look at Dallas’ face, “…your fellow geniuses say you’re just as non-violent as you are non-participatory. You haven’t had an official reprimand in over four years, and several of the guards who work on your block say you’re better behaved than anyone else in the facility.”

Dallas shifted slightly, eyes glassy and somewhat dilated, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t make any noise at all, he just kept his head down and tried to stay as still as possible.

“Would you like to hear my theory, Dallas?”

Dallas jerked his head to the right. It was a slight movement, and he only did it once, but it was still a response. It was his first response, after almost ten hours of questioning, and it was such an odd thing to finally respond to.

“I’m sorry, Dallas, but that was a rhetorical question.” Hotch gauged the increasingly nervous body language, approaching the topic cautiously. Dallas didn’t want to hear Hotch’s theory, so Hotch was moving into dangerous territory; territory Dallas was afraid of. “I think you don’t talk to anyone because it’s against the rules.”

Dallas pulled on his handcuffs slightly. Once again, it was a quick and sharp movement that didn’t get very far, but also once again, it was more response than he had given since his detainment.

“Most of the other geniuses have found little ways to communicate despite the rules, but not you. I think you’re withdrawn because you’re afraid to break the talking rule, not because you’re antisocial.”

Dallas pressed his lips together tightly and tensed up for a moment, every muscle in his body going tight before he relaxed, turning into a ragdoll on the chair. His head continued to hang down, his shoulders slouched, his hands dangled from their cuffs…

Dallas went catatonic.

Hotch barely kept himself from letting out a sigh, but he didn’t want to relay any kind of disappointment or dissatisfaction. If Hotch gave Dallas even the faintest idea that he was prone to anger in any way, Dallas could be too afraid to tell him anything even after Hotch eased him back out of his shell.

“Dallas.” Hotch lowered his voice, softening it slightly. “What did ICAP do to you?”

Dallas looked like a dead man, just as he had when Hotch first entered the room three hours earlier.

“We’ve heard a lot of things from geniuses we’ve spoken to. Not necessarily about you, just… things… and we’ve seen some concerning behaviors. We’re giving these concerns our full attention.” Hotch kept his tone level and almost kind, a conversational lilt to his voice as he continued. “You might recognize some of the names my agent sent me. If they’re familiar to you, you might know about some of these concerns we have.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled until he found JJ’s text message. “Here we go… let’s talk about…”

 

**October 22, 2005; 1:52 PM**

“Charles Eppes?” JJ whispered the name as she entered the room, blue eyes wandering over the various pieces of equipment, tubes, and wires. “Genius #3614983-3002, are you awake?”

There was a noncommittal moan from the sheets, and after a steady inhale, brown eyes flickered open and peeked up at her from underneath a mop of dark brown curls.

JJ smiled kindly and held up her badge. “Hi. Jennifer Jereau, FBI.” She saw the fear cross his face but pressed on, keeping her voice soft. “Is it alright if I call you Charlie?”

Charlie looked at her for a moment or two, and then he offered a slight nod, suspicion casting a shadow over his features.

JJ offered another small smile. “Do you remember anything about the explosion, Charlie?”

Charlie wet his lips and looked at his bandaged hands and arms, confusion twisting his lips and creasing his brow. “I was…” His voice was raspy, and he coughed a few times before clearing his throat and starting again. “Sorry. Uh, I was in the library, and I saw 7138296-3199 go by with something in his arms. It looked like, uh, like a stack of books, maybe? But I assume… given that there was an explosion… the books were hollowed out.” He coughed a few times and tried to rub at his chest, but his hands were completely wrapped in bandages, and it looked like moving the burned limbs hurt him. “I tried to… visually estimate the dimensions, but the way he was carrying the item made it difficult. He, um, he had a jacket on, a dark blue hoodie, unzipped, and it was sort of wrapped around whatever he was holding. He—” Charlie broke off into a coughing fit, quickly trying to bury his mouth in his shoulder.

JJ grabbed the water from the bedside table and held it where he could reach, holding the straw near his lips. “Here.”

Charlie coughed a few more times and then caught a breath, sucking on the straw shortly after. He pulled away and took another second or two to breathe. “Sorry…”

JJ shook her head, setting the water aside. “Don’t apologize. Just… take your time.” She pressed her lips together, wondering exactly how many geniuses were as timid and jumpy as Spencer. “You were telling me about seeing 3199 and the jacket he was wearing.”

Charlie cleared his throat and nodded slightly, taking a deep breath before replying. “I only saw him for a few seconds, and he was…” He coughed a little and then gave her a cautious look. “Could I… possibly have another drink, please?”

JJ immediately grabbed the drink and held it where he could latch on to the straw. “Of course. Please, just ask, and I’ll get it for you.” She watched him for a second, sadness creasing the corners of her eyes. “Don’t drink too fast.”

Charlie pulled his lips off the straw and gave her a brief but genuine smile, his baby face making him seem younger than his file said he was. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat a few times and then started to tell his story again. “Um, as I was saying, he was using the jacket to hide what he was doing. We aren’t allowed to talk, so I couldn’t ask him why…” Charlie trailed off for a second, eyes losing some of their focus as an almost haunted expression crossed his face. “He never talked to anyone, really. He was so quiet… non-violent… I get bored sometimes, and I… calculate random statistics to pass the time. I calculated the probability of various people on or around my block using violence to get what they wanted. 3199 was… he was in the bottom five. He’s just…”

Charlie looked at JJ then—really looked at her, eyes bright and focused and _pained_ and locked on hers—and he opened his mouth like he had something of grave importance to tell her. It lasted all of two seconds, and then he sort of… deflated, sinking into the sheets and dropping his eyes back to his injured arms.

“He’s not violent,” Charlie whispered.

JJ waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. So, JJ softened her voice and looked at him with kind, sincere eyes. “Charlie, look at me.”

He did as she asked, and JJ held his gaze for a long moment. She scanned his face, peering into his eyes, and she decided to go with her gut. She might not have had as much time to script her interactions as she would have liked, but it was her job to read people and communicate on the fly. Hotch would follow her lead as best he could.

“Charlie,” she started, “are you trying to tell me 3199 isn’t what ICAP is going to paint him as?”

Charlie wet his lips, hesitantly hopeful, tension crawling across his shoulders.

“Because if you want to tell me something ICAP is going to disagree with, that’s okay.” She folded her hands in front of her but kept them in plain sight. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m on your side, not theirs.”

Charlie swallowed, eyes sliding across her face as he examined her. “Your side _is_ their side,” he said quietly.

“I swore an oath to protect and serve.” JJ gestured vaguely to the hospital bed. “You need protecting and serving.” She smiled briefly but let it fade, silence lingering between them for a moment before she tried to relay as much safety and understanding as she could in one paragraph. “I know the FBI failed you. We let things get bad, and you had to pay for that. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. But some of us still remember what our badges represent, and I need you to believe me when I say we are going to make it better.”

Charlie looked at JJ for a long time. He scanned her like Spencer scanned crime scenes and case files, gathering information and calculating and analyzing, equations swirling in his coffee-colored eyes. His brow crinkled, his chin wobbled ever-so-slightly, and then he offered the faintest smile JJ had ever seen.

“I do.”

JJ returned his smile tenfold, genuine gratitude shining on her face. “Thank you, Charlie.” She wet her lips and glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the wall. “I need to ask you some more questions about the current case, and then I’d like to ask you a bit about ICAP itself, okay?”

Charlie nodded his head, that little smile still lingering on his lips. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Great. Tell me about what happened after 3199 went past the—”

“JJ,” Spencer swung into the room with a somewhat frazzled appearance. “We have a problem.”

JJ opened her mouth to ask for specifics, but she was answered by a shout, distant and barely decipherable underneath the pleasantly surprised, “Spencer?” from Charlie.

“Just _point,_ ” the voice snapped. “3614983-3002. Just give me a general direction, and I’ll take it from there.”

“Spencer, stay with Charlie.” JJ slipped out of the room in time to see an angry young man pushing past a nurse to storm down the hall.

“Don,” an older gentleman said, trailing behind him with yet another man trailing behind _him_. “This isn’t helping things.”

JJ squared her shoulders and started for Don head-on, already reaching for her badge.

Don saw her coming and pulled out a badge of his own when there was about a yard between them. “FBI, get out of my way.”

JJ held up her own credentials, intercepting him when he tried to go around her. “FBI, absolutely not.”

Don came to sudden stop and looked at her with eerily familiar, dark brown eyes. They flashed and burned, frustration written clearly on his face, and he probably would have shouted some more if the gentleman from before hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder.

“Don, calm down.”

JJ slowly folded her badge and put it back in her pocket, never once letting her eyes leave her target. “What do you want with Charlie?”

“What I w—” Don stopped suddenly, and his entire demeanor shifted. Like magic, the anger was gone, replaced with a suspicious confusion that held none of his former malice. “What did you just say?”

JJ frowned, but he spoke again before she could even think about replying.

“Sorry. Uh, no agent has ever called him Charlie before except…” Don looked at her for a few more moments and then cleared his throat, extending his hand. “Don Eppes. Charlie is my little brother.” He shook her hand and gestured to the older gentleman on his right as well as the man behind him. “Our father, Alan Eppes, and Dr. Larry Fleinhardt, family friend.”

“Jennifer Jereau.” JJ shook their hands in turn, overtaken by an ‘aha’ moment as the introduction sank in. “And I understand. I would be… upset, too.” She would be murderous. “Uh, you’ll be happy to hear Charlie is doing well. He suffered a minor concussion, but he’s awake and alert. He also has some pretty bad burns on his arms. He dragged another genius out of the fire, a, uh…” JJ pulled her notebook from her pocket and flipped it open, paging through until she found what she was looking for. “Amita Ramanujan. Her injuries are more severe, and she inhaled a lot of smoke. I spoke with the doctors, and they don’t know if she’s going to make it, but… she’s young and strong, and they seem very hopeful for her.”

Don nodded rapidly, seeming more interested in shutting her up so he could go see his brother, but Alan and Dr. Fleinhardt both shared a slower, more sympathetic nod. Alan had a proud glimmer in his eyes.

JJ cleared her throat and tucked her notebook back into her pocket. “I’ll need to speak with each of you before you leave, but I understand you want to visit. Charlie is in room 541, with another genius named Spencer. Spencer needs to stay as long as you’re in the room with Charlie, and unfortunately, there’s a maximum of three visitors at a time, so…”

Dr. Fleinhardt immediately stepped back and waved the other two along. “Go, go.”

There were no false pleasantries or obligated ‘are you sure?’s; Don and Alan were walking away before Dr. Fleinhardt even finished the sentence.

JJ watched them for a moment, and then she turned back to Dr. Fleinhardt. “You don’t mind if I ask you some questions while you wait?”

Dr. Fleinhardt shook his head with a knowing smile. “Not at all.”

“Thank you.” JJ folded her arms across her stomach and looked at Dr. Fleinhardt inquisitively. “ICAP isn’t the most helpful when it comes to information sharing. What’s Charlie’s story?”

Dr. Fleinhardt looked toward the ceiling and let out a wistful sigh, his eyes growing almost reminiscent. “I met Charlie when he was my student. He was bored out of his mind, pretending his intelligence level was lower than it was, and we would often talk after hours or in between classes. He used me as an excuse to be late from time to time, and in exchange, I got mentally stimulating conversation I couldn’t get from most of my students.”

JJ nodded silently, listening to every word and trying to find parallels between Spencer’s story and Charlie’s. _They both faked their intelligence level. I wonder how common that is and what lengths geniuses will go to._

“We’re well past the statute of limitations for harboring a genius, so I don’t mind telling you I often helped him cover his tracks. I warned him time and time again to be careful…” Dr. Fleinhardt shook his head with a short sigh. “Charles was coasting along with a recorded IQ of 158, right under ICAP’s 160 cutoff…” He clucked his tongue and let out another sigh, shaking his head at the ceiling, as if he could still see the moment things went south. “But he was onto something. He was sixteen, and he didn’t want to wait until he was old enough to explain his advanced results. He sent his research out of the country, to a third-world country where he felt it could do the most help and intellect isn’t policed.” Another shake of the head, this one slower. “But, as with all things of worth, there was a cost.”

JJ wet her lips and continued to listen, blue eyes focused, examining Dr. Fleinhardt’s body language. He seemed a bit vague, almost spacey, but his emotions were genuine, and there was no sign of deceit.

Dr. Fleinhardt finally looked back down and met her eyes, a sad kind of smile tainting his features. “Don had just graduated from the FBI Academy when Charlie was taken.” He pressed his lips together, the sadness in his features growing darker, digging deeper, taking a hold. “Don requested Charlie’s services as often as possible, and Charlie helped Don and his team solve all kinds of crimes. Their closure rate was _incredible._ ” There was a flicker of pride there, but it quickly gave way to the persisting grief. “But ICAP was watching them because they were related, and Don made a bad call. It was an honest mistake—Don didn’t even get a formal reprimand—but it was all ICAP needed to say Charlie couldn’t be trusted in the field with his brother.” Dr. Fleinhardt shrugged his shoulders, an invisible weight pulling them back down. “Charlie still consults on Don’s cases whenever he can, but they haven’t seen each other in about five years.” He shook his head. “I don’t think Don will ever forgive himself for that.”

JJ closed her eyes briefly, feeling a sharp pain in her sternum, but she quickly shoved it down and pressed forward. “I take it the bombing gave him an excuse to come see Charlie despite the stipulations.”

Dr. Fleinhardt nodded. “Charlie’s injured, and Don and Alan are his next of kin. There are some rights even ICAP can’t encroach on. I tagged along hoping to sneak a quick visit in all the chaos.”

JJ glanced over her shoulder at the room, an uneasy feeling settling in her stomach. It made sense that the Eppes family would react to the bombing by taking the opportunity to see a family member, but it got her thinking… what else would the incident cause? How many people had been waiting for the right moment to make a move? And what moves would they be making?

“Mm, and that is the question.”

JJ’s head whipped back around. “What?”

Dr. Fleinhardt was saring at Charlie’s room, just as she had been, and he had that spacey look on his face again. “It’s a bit of a Catch 22. This attack could be used by a number of people to paint geniuses in a light that tightens up restrictions even more.” He tilted his head slightly, lips pursing in consideration. “Or… people could use the bomb to attack ICAP, saying they can’t keep geniuses safe or even that too many restrictions pushed a genius to do this. Now, on the surface, that sounds like it could be a good thing…” He turned away from the room then, looking at JJ with profound worry in his pale green eyes. “But we must consider the alternative: ICAP is restrained in what they can do because they can still recover from the blows they’ve suffered. If that dynamic changes, they could feel they have nothing to lose by acting suspiciously.” He looked back at Charlie’s room, growing progressively more troubled. “What will they do then?”

JJ turned her head to look at Charlie’s room as well, and that feeling in her stomach started to grow. _Quick or slow; it all comes down to which option accumulates more bodies._ She grabbed her phone from her belt and started scrolling through her contacts. _We need that warrant now. We can’t afford not to be in control of this case._

Because JJ had the feeling ‘no bodies’ was no longer an option.

Maybe it never was.

 

**October 22, 2005; 9:02 PM**

“Dallas.”

Hotch had managed to pull Dallas back out of his unresponsive state, but they were a far cry from communication, and every question was like pulling the trigger in a game of Russian Roulette. Hotch had no idea which question would be the next question to send Dallas over the edge.

“Dallas, I need you to look at me for a moment.”

Hotch had learned he couldn’t ask about the girl who wound up in pieces; it was an immediate shutdown with a ten-minute-minimum recovery period. Questions about ICAP staff garnered no response, and while certain geniuses’ names got an uncomfortable twitch, there was no telling whether Dallas was uncomfortable because he didn’t like the individual or because he did like the individual and didn’t like that Hotch was looking into them.

“Dallas. Look at me.”

Hotch stood up and slowly walked around the table, crouching down beside Dallas and leaning against the leg of the table. He reached out and put a hand on Dallas’ arm, waiting to see if he would have the same reaction to physical contact that Spencer did.

Dallas leaned into the touch, lingered for a second, and then pulled away with a start as he remembered himself.

“Dallas, will you please look at me?”

Dallas didn’t respond for several seconds, but Hotch didn’t push him. Green eyes blinked, shifted in Hotch’s direction, darted away, and then wandered back. Dallas still wouldn’t turn his head, but he was looking at Hotch; nearly seven hours of questioning, and Dallas was finally looking at Hotch.

“You don’t have to say anything. But if you can, I’d like you to nod or shake your head.” Hotch spoke slowly, evenly, calmly, warmly—he spoke to Dallas the way he would a frightened child or rabid animal—and he made gentle contact again. “Did you want to make that bomb, Dallas?”

Dallas turned his head a little to stare at Hotch, and then lowered his gaze to the hand still resting on his upper arm. He blinked at it, and then he slowly shook his head.

“Did you want to plant that bomb, Dallas?”

Dallas continued to stare at the hand on his arm, lips wobbling slightly. He opened his mouth to speak, but the door flew open, and just like that, he was closed up again.

 “Hotch.”

Hotch looked at the doorway in confusion and frustration, barely able to keep his temper at bay. “Prentiss, what are you—?”

“You have to see this.” She shook her head as she spoke, caught somewhere between disbelief and panic. “Right now, Hotch.”

Hotch felt frustration for another second, and then it was gone, replaced with a worry that twisted uncomfortably in his gut. “Dallas… I’ll be right back.”

Hotch got to his feet and followed Emily out of the interrogation room, pulling the door shut behind them. The TV was turned on and up, a little box of light flickering in the corner of the observation room.

“This is on every major news network.” Emily grabbed the remote and turned it up a little more, folding her arms over her chest a second later.

Hotch blinked, quickly scanning the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

_‘ICAP USING UNETHICAL PRACTICES IN GENIUS MANAGEMENT?’_

“…with us on the phone is Dr. Eisenhower, from the Delaware Psychiatric Center in New Castle,” the newscaster was saying. “Dr. Eisenhower, tell us how you got involved with geniuses.”

“Well, about two years ago, I got a call from a good friend from the DSP. He asked me to do a psychiatric evaluation on the genius they hired as a personal favor. He was actually concerned ICAP was too lenient with their screening—we grew up in a different era of law enforcement, you know—but instead I found this young woman was dangerously overmedicated.”

“Now, when you say overmedicated, what do you—”

Emily changed the channel.

“—surprising. They put their genius on the case, and within days, they got all my money back and caught the men who had hacked my company. I went to meet the guy, to thank him in person, and I don’t know what I was expecting but,” laughter, “he wasn’t it. You know, I think we get this stereotypical narrative that’s just—”

Emily changed the channel again.

“…and I had worked with geniuses before, you know. They’re generally rude and sarcastic—not in a malicious way, just a stuck-up one—so I thought I knew what to expect. For, uh, for the most part, I was right. But this kid was running his mouth and making accusations about one of my boys, and, uh, I don’t—”

“Now, Sheriff Hallum, when you say, ‘one of your boys,’ you’re talking about a fellow officer, correct?”

Hotch would have looked at Emily if he had the strength to tear his eyes away. _Sheriff Hallum?_

“Yeah, that’s right. But, uh… man, I tell you, this kid crossed a line, and I started walking over to him, and he just…” Hallum’s voice disappeared for a moment, though there was no click to indicate the call was over. “I can’t describe it. He was just… _scared_. Cornered. Like we were… I don’t know, rabid dogs, and he wasn’t even gonna bother running. He just stood there, scared out of his mind, and…” Hallum exhaled slowly. “I don’t know if there’s anything to these rumors going around, and I don’t have any real evidence of something, but… if you told me ICAP did some awful thing to put the fear of God into that kid, I’d believe you in a heartbeat.”

“Wow. I mean, just wow. We are all in shock here at the studio, as I imagine our viewers are at home. Sheriff Hallum, thank you for calling in today. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re just tuning in, there was an explosion in the ICAP facility in Quantico, Virginia early this morning. People have been calling in to share their experiences with geniuses as we wait for a statement from the FBI. Roughly three hours ago, Fox News received a call from someone claiming ICAP is using unethical methods to control their geniuses. CNN received a similar call about twenty minutes later from a _different_ individual, and now we’re up to three hundred reports and counting, each one of th—”

Emily changed the channel yet again, and an even more familiar voice awaited them.

“—y’know? Never seen anything like it in my whole life. Honestly, I can’t even stay on that long, ‘cause we’re scared they’re gonna track us through our cell phone. I don’t know what they’re doin’ to the geniuses, but people ain’t supposed to be shipped in boxes. Y’know?”

Hotch couldn’t hold back the smile. _Yes, Michael, we know._

“Now, Mr. Evans, you found Julia while driving a truck for MSD. Correct?”

“Yup. Don’t know how many other boxes had bodies. Don’t like to think about it, y’know? But I can tell you MSD doesn’t only ship for ICAP. I think most of the stuff they send ‘round is fine. ICAP’s real secretive about their stuff. You had to get special training to drive the truck for that route, but the pay was good, so… y’know.”

“Yes, understandably. Mr. Evans, could you tell our viewers—"

_Bang!_

Everyone startled, hands flying to holsters instinctively, but it took another gunshot before they bolted for the interrogation room. Hotch had only seconds to take everything in, the news broadcast still ringing in his ears as his brain struggled to make a sudden shift for the second time in five minutes.

_What the—?_

Blake Davison, one of the ICAP guards, was on the floor with a gun in his hand and a bloody, half-blown head. Dallas was on the floor, bleeding profusely from his neck with his hands still fastened to the table.

“Dallas!”

“Blake!” the remaining ICAP guard ran over and took his gun from him, tossing it aside.

Hotch pointed to her as he moved toward Dallas, looking at Emily with eyes that gave a silent order to keep both eyes on the guard while his lips gave a not-so-silent order to, “Call an ambulance!”

Hotch dropped to his knees and peeled off his jacket, bunching it up and pressing it against Dallas’ throat as hard as he could without cutting off the air supply. “Hey, can you look at me? Dallas, look at me.”

Dallas blinked slowly, green eyes wandering across the ceiling before sliding to an unsteady stop on Hotch’s face. Dallas sighed heavily, tongue moving like he wanted to say something, but then he just sighed again.

“You’re gonna be alright.” Hotch brushed his hair back out of his face and tilted his head, pressing down on his neck a little harder. “You’re gonna be alright, Dallas.”

Dallas’ eyes rolled back into his head as another lungful of air pushed out, his body going slack on the floor.

“Dallas.” Hotch slapped his cheek a few times. “Dallas, wake up! Dallas, I need you to stay with me. Dallas!”

_What just happened?_

 

**October 23, 2005; 2:31 AM**

“Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch simultaneously lifted his head and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Yes.” He stood up, unsteady at first, and displayed the credentials he had been toying with for the past twenty minutes. “That’s me.”

“Dr. Bengal,” the man replied, extending his hand with a warm but tired smile. “I wish I could say I was the trauma surgeon who worked on this kid, but he’s sleeping on a gurney right now.” They shook hands, and Dr. Bengal grabbed the clipboard from under his arm. “You’ll have to settle for secondhand information tonight.”

Hotch offered a weak smile of his own. “I suppose I can forgive him for taking a coffee break after a day like this.” He slipped his hands into his pockets, trying not to yawn. “What can you tell me about Dallas?”

Dr. Bengal looked down at the clipboard in his hands. “Well, the short version is, he’s going to be alright. If the bullet had been half a centimeter to the left, he would have been killed instantly. He won’t be walking out any time this week, but… in a month? Maybe.” Dr. Bengal shrugged his shoulders slightly. “We’ll take what we can get.” He cleared his throat and indicated the clipboard by lifting it slightly. “Says here our boy’s a genius. That right?”

Hotch couldn’t help but feel automatically suspicious. There was no method for predicting how genius status would be received, especially not since the media explosion.

But Dr. Bengal held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I’m a doctor. I want every patient in this building safe and healthy. I just want to know if we need to initiate any kind of protective custody.”

Hotch relaxed but stopped short of shaking his head. “Well, we’re going to have an agent outside his door at all times. Is there something further you can do?”

Dr. Bengal jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the receptionist desk. “We can have them screen anyone entering this wing.” He shrugged. “We’ve had high-profile patients before, and we’re the main hospital for agents and geniuses because of proximity.”

Hotch nodded in understanding. “I would appreciate that. I’ll have our liaison send a list of cleared individuals to your desk.”

Dr. Bengal nodded and then looked back at the chart again. “There _is_ another reason I asked about his intelligence status.” He looked back up, and his expression was a blend of sympathetic and disgusted.

Hotch frowned. He didn’t like the way that sounded.

“His vocal cords were removed,” Dr. Bengal said bluntly. “Geniuses aren’t allowed to smoke, and while he could have created nodules with extensive talking, the chances of him needing his vocal cords completely removed are slim.” Dr. Bengal pressed his lips into a thin line. “Keep in mind, this is different from being mute. It isn’t just his voice. It’s laughing, screaming, crying, moaning, grunting… he can’t make a sound.”

Hotch cursed out loud, more colorfully than usual, and rubbed his forehead. “I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t talk when he _looked_ like he wanted to. I thought he was just afraid.”

Dr. Bengal frowned, drumming his fingers on the side of the clipboard. “You were questioning a genius and ICAP didn’t tell you they were physically incapable of answering anything but yes or no questions?”

Hotch gave him an exhausted, longsuffering look. “No, they did not.” He dropped his gaze and swore again. “Of course, he still didn’t answer the yes or no ones, but they were watching the whole time.” Between cuffed hands, no vocal cords, and the ingrained fear of law enforcement, it was no wonder Dallas had refused to communicate.

Dr. Bengal was silent for a moment, but then he offered a soft smile. “Well, maybe now he can have a real conversation with you.” He gestured down the hall in the opposite direction of the receptionist desk. “Do you want to see him?”

Hotch was surprised. “He’s conscious?”

“Barely, but you might be able to get something out of him.” Dr. Bengal was already walking down the hall, beckoning Hotch with a finger. “It’s hard to tell if he’s still half-sedated or if he’s traumatized, but in my professional opinion, the kid’s shell-shocked. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to get a hold of any of ICAP’s psychiatrists…” He slowed down and turned his head slightly. “Although, under the circumstances, do you think I should?”

Hotch glanced into the rooms he passed, sobered by the thought that, while not as close to death’s door as Dallas, each one had a genius injured in an unnecessary, political explosion.

“No.” Hotch followed Dr. Bengal into Room 546. “I would prefer you have one of your psychiatrists talk to him.” He paused. “Actually, I would prefer you have your psychiatrists evaluate all the geniuses.”

Dr. Bengal nodded his head, pulling his pager from his hip and reading the message. “If you think it’s appropriate, we can give them full physicals, too.”

“I think that’s more than appropriate.” Hotch nodded and approached the bed, where Dallas lay amongst the sheets and wires. “I want all of the results sent to the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Consider it done.” Dr. Bengal turned toward the door, returning his pager to his belt. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Hotch nodded his head with a quiet word of thanks, and then he leaned over the hospital bed. “Dallas?” he said softly, gently nudging the young man on the shoulder. “Dallas, this is Agent Hotchner with the FBI. Do you remember me?”

Dallas opened his eyes, took one look at Hotch, and burst into tears. He started rubbing his fist in a circle on his chest, shaking his head back and forth.

Hotch had begun to learn American Sign Language ever since he found out geniuses used it to communicate, and he didn’t know much, but he knew how to sign ‘sorry.’

“Dallas, what are you sorry for?”

Dallas started to sign some more, and while it was a short sentence on repeat, Hotch wasn’t familiar with the words. Hotch reached into his jacket to grab his notebook while Dallas kept repeating the same thing, silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

It was so unnatural. Eerie.

Not speaking was one thing, but the way Dallas cried was… unnerving, to say the least. Rapid exhales and inhales, tears and a running nose, reddened cheeks, lips twisted and ugly, but… no cries. Not loud, not soft, not harsh, not stuttering, just… _not._

“Dallas, here.” Hotch handed over the notebook and a pen. “I’m sorry. I’m not fluent. Try to take a deep breath, calm down, and tell me with this.”

Dallas grabbed the booklet and started writing frantically, tears still rolling down his cheeks. He handed it back, desperately pointing to the same sentence over and over.

_‘I killed them.’_

Hotch looked up from the notebook. “Yes, you did. But you told me you didn’t want to build the bomb.” Dallas had never had the chance to answer whether or not he wanted to plant the bomb, but that was a formality; Hotch was certain he knew the answer already. “Why did you set off the bomb, Dallas?”

Dallas took the pad back and started to write again. He had to stop halfway through to catch his breath, and by the time he was scratching down the last word, his monitor had started beeping.

“Dallas, you have to calm down. You have to breathe.” Hotch put a hand on Dallas’ shoulder but tried to avoid anything that might recreate the sensation of being held down. “Dallas, it’s okay. It’s okay, shh, you need to take a deep breath—”

“Sorry, Agent—” Dr. Bengal was suddenly there, pushing Hotch aside to get to the oxygen, “—we’re gonna have to sedate.”

“I understand.” Hotch stepped back to get out of the way, looking down at his hands as he realized he had taken the pad back at some point during the altercation. He looked at the written answer just as Dallas slumped back into the sheets, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling with once again vacant eyes.

Dr. Bengal stepped away from the bed, leaving Dallas in the capable hands of a nurse Hotch, quite honestly, hadn’t even noticed up to that point. “Do you know what it was that triggered him?”

Hotch pressed his lips together. “He was upset from the moment he saw me, but… I asked him why he made the bomb.” He handed over the notebook without another word.

Words weren’t really necessary.

Dr. Bengal looked at the tablet for a moment and then handed it back. “I will get those psych evals underway, and we’ll update you as frequently as we can.”

“I would appreciate that.” Hotch took the notebook back, never once letting his eyes stray from the young man—the incredibly young, barely an adult, scared and vulnerable and confused man—on the bed.

_We’re going to make this right._

As right as they could. Much of the damage ICAP had done was irreversible—Dallas and his silent cries were a painful reminder of that—but whatever they could do, they would.

Hotch heaved a sigh and pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping it open and dialing Rossi. He didn’t even know what he was going to say, he just needed to tell someone. He needed someone to be disgusted and angry with him, he needed to hear someone say they were going to find a way to fix things.

“Hey, I was just going to call you.” Rossi sounded tired but, somehow, energetic, and he was certainly more positive than Hotch. “Strauss called me five minutes ago. She’s making some progress on warrants, going floor by floor. There’s a lot of balking on the secret basement and some of the floors containing research related to national security, but we’re getting there, and Chief West is offering the full assistance of Organized Crime.”

That was good. That was great. That was a wonderful update, and Hotch was happy. He was, truly, and he would be even more elated when it sank in that they were finally going to get some answers—get some _justice_ —and fix the problem they had let grow under their noses.

“Hotch?”

“I asked him why he did it.”

God bless Rossi, who didn’t need to ask who Hotch was talking about or comment on his lack of enthusiasm over the update. Bless Rossi, who simply asked, “What did he say?”

Hotch looked at the notepad in his hand for a moment and cleared his throat. “He couldn’t say anything. He’s completely mute. ICAP took his vocal chords.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” Hotch cleared his throat again. “He wrote something, though.”

Rossi waited for a moment, and then he pressed. “What did he write?”

Hotch lifted his eyes to Dallas for a second, and then shifted his eyes back to the notepad. He looked at the chicken scratch, the words scrawled on in haste, tears dotting the paper in between the curls and corners of ink, making it run.

“‘I didn’t want to lose my eyes.’”


	13. Chapter 13

“I’m sorry.”

Hotch glanced up from his phone, a slight frown pulling on his mouth. He reached down to tousle Spencer’s hair with his free hand, carefully prodding for more information. “What are you sorry for?”

Spencer heaved a sigh and curled up on the cot the hospital had been kind enough to provide. He pulled his blanket around himself a little tighter, hazel eyes absently wandering over to Dallas. He sniffed, shifted his gaze to the monitor, and then drooped on the bed.

“Spencer, what are you sorry for?”

Spencer shrugged and inched a little closer to Hotch’s hand, nudging until Hotch huffed out a laugh and started to play with the mousy, brown locks.

“You need a haircut.” And a bath, but Hotch wasn’t going to mention that; Spencer had enough to be self-conscious about. “If I play with your hair, will you tell me what you’re sorry for?” Hotch looked down at his phone again, skimming his inbox in search of an encouraging update. “Or are you being cryptic today?” He gave Spencer a sideways glance.

Spencer flashed a weak smile, but it quickly faded, the skin beneath his eyes darkened by fatigue. “I just… picked the worst time to have an episode.”

Hotch continued to idly run his fingers through Spencer’s hair, occasionally rubbing Spencer’s shoulders, upper back, and neck, trying to bring him some kind of comfort. “First of all, you didn’t _pick_ anything. These past few days have been very stressful for everyone, and everyone is suffering aftereffects. Yours are more severe because of a condition you can’t control, and nobody holds that against you.” He opened an email from an old friend, someone from his days as a prosecutor, and scanned the words with only half his attention. “Second of all, don’t call it an episode. It’s just a setback. If you call it an episode, you give it a power it doesn’t deserve.”

Spencer curled up a little more and shifted his weight, like he couldn’t get comfortable; which was quite possible, given the strong correlation between depression and chronic pain.

Hotch finished looking at the email and put his full attention back on Spencer. “Do you want some Advil?” he asked, concern creasing his brow.

Spencer shook his head. “No.” He was still for a moment, and then he pulled himself into a sitting position. “I don’t want to sleep again.”

Hotch let out a soft sigh. “Spencer, if your body needs sleep—”

“Please, Agent Hotchner?” Spencer turned pleading eyes to Hotch, an almost whining edge to his tone. “I slept all night, and I’ve been dozing on and off for four hours.” He was unhappy, but he seemed sure of himself. “I want to be awake.”

Hotch lifted his hand in a gesture of surrender. “Alright. If you really want to be awake, we’ll make it happen.” He had such a fine line to walk, balancing between teaching Spencer to be gentle with himself and encouraging him not to give up the fight. “Do you want to run to the cafeteria and get some coffee?”

Spencer bit his lip, shrinking back slightly. “Um… I was actually thinking… maybe I could have some Ritalin? I… I’ve been more tired than usual with everything that’s happened, and I’m afraid coffee won’t be enough, and if I drink coffee, but I still feel tired, then I can’t take Ritalin because of the coffee, or I could, but I would be high, so I thought—”

Hotch held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Spencer. Spencer. Hey.”

“—maybe it would be alright… if…”

“Hey, shh, it’s okay.” Hotch waited until Spencer’s words came to a complete stop. “It’s okay,” he repeated with an encouraging smile. “I have some Ritalin in my go-bag.”

Spencer let out a sigh of relief and all but bolted for the bag.

Hotch watched Spencer for a moment, wondering how long Spencer had wrestled with the thought of asking for Ritalin, and then Hotch put his attention back on his cell phone. He glanced over the subject lines of several emails before tucking the device into his jacket pocket with no small amount of frustration.

_This is such a mess._

It had been almost forty-eight hours since the initial explosion, and Hotch had spent more than half of that time sitting in the hospital room with an unconscious Dallas and a semi-conscious Spencer. Everyone on the team was reporting back to him, and he was coordinating their movements, but he felt like he should have been out there doing something, doing _more._

There was no shortage of jobs, afterall, it was just that someone on the team had to stay far enough above the investigation to see it as a whole and make sure nothing was missed. That someone was Hotch. And it frustrated Hotch to know there was so much that needed to be done while he sat in a hospital room checking his email and staring at the wall.

How much exactly? Well, Hotch had a testament to his boredom that answered that very question.

The ICAP staff were being detained and questioned at Quantico, and ICAP employed roughly 3,000 people. So, if the world were a perfect and beautiful place, and each one of those interviews lasted thirty minutes, it would take 60,000 minutes to interview them all. Or 1,500 hours. Or 62.5 days. Hotch couldn’t make himself factor in the number of employees who hadn’t been working the day of the explosion, and thus had to be contacted or tracked down and brought in.

Then, of course, the geniuses themselves had to be questioned, and ICAP had more than 9,000 of those. So, if the world were made of sparkles and sunshine, and each one of _those_ interviews took thirty minutes, that would be 270,000 minutes. Or 4,500 hours. Or 187.5 days. Hotch couldn’t bring himself to figure out how long the physical and psychological evaluations would take, nor could he ponder the additional time it would take the urine and blood samples to be processed by labs.

Once the bomb site had been completely uncovered, the total body count was seventeen, so they needed seventeen autopsies. Thankfully, that was only sixty-eight hours of work, give or take. But just because the site was uncovered, it didn’t mean the crime scene teams were done. There was still evidence to collect, tests to run, pictures to take, and results to wait for. Hotch had no numbers for that. He didn’t _want_ numbers for that.

Then, of course, came the pièce de résistance: investigating the ICAP floors they had a warrant for. Which was everything above ground. So, twenty-four floors.

Each floor in the building was just under 60,000 square feet, meaning the entire building was just under 1.5 million square feet, which was just under twenty-five football fields. Sure, about 680,000 of those square feet were genius holding cells with next to nothing in them, and Hotch could guestimate out the hallways and stairwells, but that still left the FBI with roughly fourteen football fields of pure ICAP to comb through.

So, in a perfect and beautiful world made of sunshine and sparkles, the FBI had 250 days of questioning to conduct, twenty-five football fields to investigate, and an unknown but intimidating number of test results to wait for and then evaluate the usefulness of.

The FBI employed, roughly, 35,000 agents.

And by no stretch of the imagination were the majority of them involved in the ICAP investigation.

And by no stretch of the imagination was the world a perfect and beautiful place made of sunshine and sparkles.

“Agent Hotchner?” Spencer shifted on the cot—Hotch hadn’t even realized he returned—chewing on his lip. “How is this going to work?”

 _I was just asking myself the same thing._ But Hotch got the idea Spencer was asking about something different. “How’s what going to work?”

Spencer shrugged his shoulders. “I mean… I don’t like what ICAP does. But… what about it is illegal?” He shrugged again. “Geniuses aren’t allowed to know much beyond the basics of the law, because they figure we’ll find loopholes if we study it too long, so I don’t really know much about it. I don’t know what it is we’re actually trying to nail ICAP with… or for… or…” He trailed off and shrugged again, eyes wandering anywhere but Hotch’s face.

Hotch managed not to show any disgust or frustration, but the fact that Spencer didn’t know even the most basic facets of his own rights was… disheartening, to say the least.

“Spencer, geniuses are still people.” Hotch watched Spencer’s face carefully for any signs of confusion or disagreement. “There are certain things you just don’t do to people. Ever. You don’t cut out their vocal cords to punish them, and you don’t threaten to blind them. You don’t euthanize them. You don’t medicate them to the point of insanity.” Hotch leaned forward a bit and tried to catch the eyes Spencer kept turning away. “Do you understand?”

Spencer nodded slowly, but there was still a flicker of doubt.

“Spencer—”

“Can I—”

They overlapped, and Spencer immediately shut up, eyes glued to the floor. Hotch gave him a small smile even though he wasn’t looking.

“Go ahead,” Hotch said softly.

Spencer wet his lips and sat in silence for a moment, and then he cautiously lifted his head. “Um…” He tucked his hair behind his ear and fidgeted on the cot. “ICAP would sometimes give me these… medications… and I never asked about them, because if they were legal, I was afraid…”

 _You were afraid they would be forced on you, like your other medications._ Hotch kept his expression open and waited for Spencer to continue, preparing himself for the same, sickening path every ICAP conversation eventually led him down.

“They were, like… recreational drugs, you know? Not really… _for_ anything, I guess, but… I never saw them listed in case files like I did with other illegal drugs.” Spencer clasped his hands together and put them in his lap, chewing on his bottom lip. “Barbifentanyl was one. Doxyglycosemine was the other, but everybody called it Hi-Gloss.”

Hotch frowned slightly. “I’ve never heard of those, but I know fentanyl is a potent narcotic.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and brought up Dr. Meadowlark and Dr. Bengal’s numbers, creating a new text. “Let’s see if we can get some answers. How do you spell the names?”

Spencer didn’t even have to think. “B-A-R-B-I-F-E-N-T-A-N-Y-L and D-O-X-Y-G-L-Y-C-O-S-E-M-I-N-E.” Bless that eidetic memory of his.

“Do you know _why_ you were supposed to take these?” Hotch kept typing as he spoke.

“No… I think they just wanted to observe the effects.” Spencer shrugged his shoulders and scratched at the insides of his arms. “I don’t know.”

“Spencer?” Hotch gave the arms a pointed look and then started checking for any other nervous tics. “You’re scratching. Does something about these medications make you uncomfortable? Something you haven’t told me yet?”

“I… miss them sometimes… a lot.” Spencer looked down at his lap, scratching a little harder before forcing himself to stop by wrapping both arms around himself. “I haven’t had them in a while, so it’s not as bad, but those first few weeks after a dose… I miss them so much, Agent Hotchner. It scares me.”

Hotch pursed his lips and nodded slowly. _Well, that doesn’t sound good._ But Hotch didn’t say that out loud. “What, uh…” He finished his text and sent it, tucking the phone back into his jacket so he could put his undivided attention on Spencer. “What was it like to be on those medications?”

Spencer yawned and then sniffed, easing himself onto his side. “I don’t know. It was… really nice… which I always found suspicious.” He blinked at the space in front of him, staring absently at the foot of Dallas’ hospital bed. “They would give me a shot of barbifentanyl… and I would get really lightheaded and spacy, and then I would feel so… I don’t know, happy… excited… _good_. It just felt so… _awesome…_ especially if I was having bad anxiety that day…” He frowned, scooting a little closer to Hotch’s chair in what was, no doubt, a subliminal request for head rubs. “But when it wore off, I would get shakes and cramps and… not fun stuff…” He shook his head. “Every drug has its crash, but with the barbifentanyl, it was almost like… withdrawals without long-term use.” He bit his lip. “But I never complained when they wanted to give it to me again. It just… it felt so _good…_ and that scared me, too.”

Hotch started to toy with Spencer’s hair again, thoughtful and silent. _How could a drug like that exist and not become a major street drug?_ But Hotch knew all the street drugs, and he hadn’t recognized the names or the symptoms Spencer listed.

“Spencer, did both of them give you those withdrawal symptoms?”

Spencer shook his head, smiling contentedly as his eyes fluttered shut. “No… the doxyglycosemine would just knock me out when it was done. I would get a shot every hour… usually while I was working on a case. I don’t know the amount, but I could probably figure it out if I had a syringe…” He drifted for a moment and then snapped awake, shifting on the cot, never letting himself get too far from Hotch’s hand. “It, uh, it could keep me going for days but slow down the onset of mental deficiency that’s usually associated with sleep deprivation. It made me really thirsty… but I didn’t have to eat at all, so… the benefits were worth it. Once the case was closed, the doses would stop… and after about two hours without it, I was down for the count… usually for two to three days.” He shrugged his shoulders.

Hotch nodded slowly. “Well… we’ll ask around and try to find out what they were giving you. Alright?”

Spencer nodded but didn’t say anything. He stared ahead with half-lidded eyes, his expression thoughtful, and then began to drift.

Hotch ran his hand through Spencer’s hair again, a light smile pulling on the corner of his mouth. _I wonder if Jack will still let me do this when he’s Spencer’s age…_

Probably not. Jack wouldn’t grow up touch-starved and isolated and abused. When Jack was twenty-four, assuming Hotch and Haley did their jobs right, he wouldn’t need to be touched to feel safe or happy. He wouldn’t crave human contact and affection because he would have gotten a surplus of it throughout his childhood, adolescent, and young adult years.

“Agent Hotchner…?”

“Yes?” Hotch softly trailed his fingers through the brown tangles.

Spencer blinked slowly, eyes unfocused. “Can I ask you something… that might make you mad? Or… upset?”

Hotch nodded, keeping the concern off his face for fear Spencer would misinterpret it. “Of course.”

Spencer frowned slightly, drawing his arms in close and huddling down on the cot. “I don’t want you to feel bad…”

“I’m a big boy, Spencer. I can handle some hurt feelings, and if I get mad, I’ll get over it.” Hotch smiled and combed through Spencer’s hair again. “Go ahead and tell me.”

Spencer squirmed in place for a moment. “Um… well, you remember the Owen Savage case, right?” He glanced up at Hotch.

Hotch nodded slowly. “Yes, of course. What about it?”

“Well…” Spencer shifted again, his eyes back on the hospital bed. “We had a fight… and we both said some things… and some of the things I said I didn’t mean, but some of them I did…” He wet his lips, blinking a few times and still staring dead ahead. “And I wondered… did you mean… some of the things you said, too?”

Hotch frowned slightly. “That’s too vague to answer, Spencer.” He made a note when his phone vibrated in his pocket, but the device went untouched. “What in particular are you asking about?”

“Um… you, uh…” Spencer’s face twisted up. “I made some comments about people like you… treating people like me like garbage… and so a little later… you said you were using me, and that—”

“—you should consider it a compliment,” Hotch sighed softly, recalling the words he had angrily thrown out to end their argument. “Because you don’t use garbage.”

Spencer curled up a little tighter. “And I—I know I deserved it, because I was—I was being very unprofessional and inappropriate, but I was just wondering—I just thought maybe—”

“Spencer.” Hotch ran his hand through Spencer’s hair again, desperate to ease some of the pain he had caused. “When we talked about what happened in my office the next day, I thought I told you I didn’t do a good job of keeping my temper in check during the Savage case.”

“You did,” Spencer said softly, picking at the skin around his nails, knees pressed to his chest. “But that doesn’t mean what you said wasn’t true… or wasn’t what you really think… it just means you were angry when you said it.”

Hotch let out a sigh and closed his eyes briefly. “Oh, Spencer… what am I going to do with you?” He immediately realized that was the wrong thing to say.

Spencer shrugged his shoulders and bowed his head with a quiet, “Sorry…”

“Spencer, I’m not upset.” Hotch rubbed Spencer’s back in slow, soothing circles. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like a problem. I just don’t like to see you sad, okay?”

Spencer gave a jerky nod but still seemed uncertain.

Hotch fought off the urge to sigh again and kept rubbing Spencer’s back. “I didn’t mean what I said during the Owen Savage case, Spencer, and I’m sorry that it hurt you.” Hotch grabbed Spencer’s shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. “Can you forgive me?”

Spencer tilted his head back, blinking a few times as he examined Hotch’s face. He stared, looking for some kind of assurance, and then he offered a light smile and a nod. “Yeah, I forgive you.” He wet his lips. “You forgive me? For getting so mad at you?”

“Of course.” Hotch smiled, the kind of warmth settling over him that he used to only feel at home. “You didn’t hurt me, Spencer. My skin is pretty thick. At the very worst, you offended me.”

Spencer let out a little sigh of relief. “Oh. That’s good.” He tensed slightly. “I mean, not _good_ , but… better than the alternative.”

Hotch chuckled softly. “I knew what you meant.”

Spencer smiled weakly. “Yeah…” He tilted his head back down so he was staring at the bed again. “Can I… ask another question?”

“Sure.” Hotch leaned back in his chair, presenting a casual air he didn’t necessarily feel inside. “What is it?”

“Um… do you…” Spencer bit his lip. “Do you regret it?”

Hotch allowed a frown. “Losing my temper?”

Spencer shook his head “No. Um…” He bit his lip, glanced up at Hotch, and then looked back down. “Um… do you regret… you know… me?” He looked back up. “Do you regret renting me from ICAP?”

“No.” Hotch didn’t hesitate—couldn’t afford to and didn’t want to—and smiled softly. “Not even a little bit.” He shifted his hand so it was back in Spencer’s hair. “I enjoy having you on my team, I appreciate what you’ve taught me, and I look forward to working with you for a very long time, Spencer.”

Spencer bit down on his lip, eyes somewhat glassy, and he nodded his head a few times. He sniffed, leaning into Hotch’s touch and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. “Can I ask one more question?”

“You can ask as many questions as you want.” That was probably a dangerous permission to give, but Hotch gave it anyway.

Spencer wet his lips. “If you had been my dad… would you have left my mom and me?”

Hotch frowned slightly as he contemplated the question. “I… didn’t know your father left you.” He remembered Spencer talking to his mom about a fight, but other than that, Spencer hadn’t mentioned anything about his dad.

“We were too difficult.” Spencer shrugged. “Mom was sick, and I was… well, me.” He glanced up at Hotch but quickly looked back down again. “I think it’s weird that you haven’t left yet. You don’t have any obligation to take care of me, but you’re still here. Meanwhile, my dad _did_ have an obligation… and he left anyway… so I thought maybe the obligation is what makes people want to leave.” He looked up again, hazel eyes glassy with unshed tears, curious and vulnerable. “So… if you _were_ obligated to take care of me… would you?”

“Absolutely.” Hotch didn’t hesitate—couldn’t afford to and didn’t want to—and smiled fondly, thumbing Spencer’s hairline.

Spencer smiled back, the tears in his eyes remaining unshed. “Yeah, I thought so.” He ducked his head down and moved a little closer, pressing into Hotch’s hand.

Hotch obliged the silent request and started playing with Spencer’s hair yet again. “Since we’re on the topic of your mother… have you thought about seeing her? I know ICAP promised you a face-to-face visit if you gave them information, and obviously that fell through, but…”

Spencer’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he screwed his eyes shut, one hand coming up to cover his face. “I’m sorry.”

Hotch shook his head. “It was understandable, Spencer. She’s your mother, and you haven’t seen her in over twelve years.” Hotch put as much sympathy into his voice as he could. “I didn’t bring it up to condemn you, I just thought we could discuss some ways to get you in touch with her.”

Spencer blinked a few times as he considered, and then he tilted his head back, looking up at Hotch with a happy little smile on his face. “My suspicions were correct.”

“Oh?” Hotch lifted a curious brow. “And what did you suspect?”

“That I love you. And I do.” Spencer stared with eyes wide and shining, lips still pulled up into a smile. “I don’t want to see my mom until I know ICAP can’t hurt her to get to me… and I’m prepared for that to take a while.” He smiled a little wider. “But it means a lot that you asked, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch was still stuck on the sudden declaration of love, and it was with a bemused sort of smile that he put his hand back in Spencer’s hair and replied, “I love you, too.” His smile gradually melded into something warmer and more assured. “And you _will_ see your mother, Spencer. We can wait until after ICAP is taken care of, but you will see her. I promise.”

Spencer kept smiling, but it was a sleepy smile, and it looked like the Ritalin hadn’t given him what he needed to keep his eyes open. “You love me, too?”

“I do.” Hotch didn’t hesitate—couldn’t afford to and didn’t want to—and got to his feet. “Is that so surprising?” He grabbed the discarded blanket from the foot of the cot.

Spencer pursed his lips, thoughtful. “Well… yeah, it kinda is.” His expression scrunched up a little more. “I mean, you saved me. I didn’t think I was ever gonna get out of there, and then you…” He flashed a brief, tired, but truly happy smile, and then the confusion returned. “But… what did I do? Why do you love me?”

“Can’t I just love you because I like you and want you to be my friend?” Hotch flicked the blanket open and laid it over Spencer before uncovering his feet and pulling on his shoelaces. “You’re fun to be around. You’re passionate and kind and thoughtful…” Hotch pulled off one shoe and set it under the bed. “That’s enough for me.”

Spencer stared in wonder, completely blown away by the idea of someone liking him for… him. For who he was rather than what he was capable of.

Hotch sent the second shoe to join its twin and tucked Spencer’s feet back under, straightening up with another smile. “Try to get some sleep. I’m going to get some updates from the team and hospital staff.”

Spencer was still awestruck, but he nodded his head and settled down in the sheets, a faint smile still pulling on the corner of his mouth.

Hotch smiled and turned to go, briefly checking Dallas to see if he was conscious.

He wasn’t.

Hotch stepped into the hall and pulled his phone from his pocket, wanting to check his messages before he moved on to any intelligence gathering.

**Dr. Bengal** _I’ve never heard of either of those. I asked the doctor who worked on Dallas, and he said he sent some stuff to the lab after he saw the missing vocal cords. I told him to let me know what shows up in the results._

**Dr. Meadowlark** _I’ve never heard of those medications. Let me do a little research and get back to you._

 

Hotch heaved a sigh and tucked his phone back into his jacket before making his way toward the front desk. _Just once, I would like to get some information about ICAP that doesn’t make things more complicated._

Somehow, Hotch didn’t think he was going to be that lucky.

* * *

It was five o’ clock somewhere. Not in Rossi’s living room, but somewhere.

Rossi’s living room was stuck firmly between the hours of twelve and one, making it a little early for him to have a glass of wine in his hand. However, 12:23 was also the middle of his official lunch break, meaning he was officially off the clock, meaning a slowly-sipped glass of wine was an acceptable way to relax.

Though, in all honesty, even if Rossi had no excuse, he would have had his wine anyway. He was almost fifty years old, and if he wanted a glass of wine at noon, he would have a glass of wine at noon.

“Mr. Rossi, I’ve got good news!”

Rossi turned away from the bay window with an arched brow. “That’s great, kid, but I could’ve sworn I told you not to call me mister.”

Garcia stopped in the entryway to the living room and looked up from the laptop in her arms, giving Rossi an unimpressed eyebrow raise to rival his. “Yeah, and I told you not to call me kid. So, here we are.”

Rossi lifted a finger. “Fair point.” He motioned for her to come closer, sitting on the edge of the windowsill. “What were you going to show me?”

“I’m in!” Garcia exclaimed, practically bouncing over to him with bright eyes and a wide smile. “My inside person used the explosion as a distraction, and in all the craziness, she got the chip I left her into their computers.” She beamed at him. “It’s been running my programs ever since, and I am in like bellbottoms in the seventies.”

Rossi smiled and leaned a little closer, looking at the mess of data on the screen. “I take it this all means something to you?”

“Yeah, well, that’s kinda a sucky setback thing I’m not super happy about.” Garcia chewed on her lip for a moment, watching the screen in mild frustration. “I’m in the system, but the documents are still encrypted. Not everything, of course, but all the useful stuff. I’m already writing a program to decrypt the files, but even once I’m done with that, it’ll take time for the programs to run.”

Time, time, time. Everything took so much time, and time was something they didn’t have.

“It’s a safe bet there are some dirty secrets in there, but let’s not discount the easy-access information.” Rossi pursed his lips, contemplating the problem at hand. “It all comes down to how much time we have to get a warrant for the basement. How much time before they destroy all the evidence?”

Garcia nodded her head and shifted her laptop into one arm, using her other hand to type as she gravitated toward the couch. “Okay, so, do you want me to stop working on the program, or do you want me to finish it and look into the other stuff while the program is running?” She slowly sat down and put the laptop on the coffee table, switching to two hands and typing three times as fast.

Rossi pursed his lips and pondered the question as he swirled the wine in his glass. “Do you have enough…” he waved his hand and wiggled his fingers to indicate a missing word, “…to work on your program and send the unencrypted files to another computer at the same time?”

“Oh, yeah.” Garcia nodded, pink and blue curls falling over her shoulder. “Trying to transfer the files and _run_ the program would make it super slow, but it shouldn’t be too much of a problem while I’m still writing it.” She lifted her hands from the keyboard and cracked her knuckles in turn, each thumb bending its own set of fingers without the two hands ever actually touching. “So, send the unguarded stuff to a secondary computer?”

Rossi grabbed his drink and walked over to the kitchen counter to grab his own work laptop. “Put the files on this. I’ll start looking for something we can use to get a warrant.”

Garcia worried her lip for a moment, flexing her fingers a few times to stretch them out, and then she was typing again, albeit slower than before. “What kind of thing are we looking for?”

“Well, _allegedly_ , the reason we can’t go down to the basement is because they handle matters of national security down there. That’s also the reason, _allegedly,_ that we can’t have access to the files on their servers.” Rossi had learned to hate the word ‘allegedly’ after sitting in on just one conversation with Section Chief Jason Bale. “We’re gonna need something big to get that kind of clearance.”

“Which is why I’m here to dig it up and drop it on the internet as an anonymous third party.” Garcia muttered something under her breath and then heaved a sigh. “Okay, so, what do we have from the parts of the building we _are_ allowed to investigate?”

“Well, as the good section chief mentioned many times, right now we can only prove excessive use of force and medical malpractice.” Rossi’s face twisted into a scowl. “And technically, he’s right. Most of our evidence is circumstantial. But, to be fair, we haven’t had a very long time to investigate.” He swallowed the last of his wine and set the empty glass on the table. “Still, genius testimony isn’t as valuable as freeman testimony, and Bale provided medical documents saying Dallas got an infection in his vocal cords that forced ICAP to remove them.”

Garcia snorted and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.” She shook her head and then pulled her hands from the keyboard again, thoughtful. “Should I look into Dallas? Try and figure out why they tried so hard to silence him?”

Rossi thought about that for a moment, and then he began to nod. “Yeah. His situation definitely warrants looking into…” Rossi scratched his beard for a moment and then slowly started to speak again. “Look into us. Our team, I mean.”

Garcia pressed her lips together, confusion creasing her brow. “Okay…?”

“It’s been bugging me since all of this began.” Rossi frowned, replaying the chain of events in his mind. “We thought we started this conflict by looking into ICAP, but Spencer got the order to look into our team _before_ we started investigating ICAP. So, why were they looking into us in the first place?”

Garcia thought about that for a moment, and then she also frowned. “That’s… a very good question.” She nodded a few times and put her fingers back on the keys. “I can definitely look into that.”

She started typing, eyes darting from side to side as she followed the strings of numbers and symbols from one line to the next. She was laser-focused, and that gave Rossi the opportunity to lean back and observe for a while, trying to get a read on the girl who had been living in his guest room for almost two months.

She had started to lighten up after learning about the ICAP investigation, and while there was still a perpetual air of distrust, she seemed to enjoy being around the members of the team. Somehow, without anyone knowing, she had gotten her hands on some dye and recolored the fading strands in her hair. But every day, she wore black sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and a gray hoodie that zipped up the front. And Rossi didn’t get that.

“You don’t seem like the type to wear black, white, and gray.” Rossi gave no preamble for the statement. “JJ tells me you won’t go shopping with her, and you told her to just get plain sweatpants and t-shirts for you.”

Garcia’s fingers slowed to a stop, hands hovering over the keyboard. “Why does it matter?” There was the distrust again, a visceral response he wondered if she was even aware of.

Rossi shrugged and leaned back, propping his feet up on the coffee table and crossing them at the ankles. “I’m a concerned party.” He interlaced his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach. “Spencer couldn’t wait to get some color in his wardrobe, and he _didn’t_ spend several years baffling ICAP staff by managing to dye his hair rainbow without access to dye.”

Garcia shrugged her shoulders, cracking her knuckles as she often did when nervous. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the lack of a challenge. No point trying to be colorful when it’s allowed.”

Rossi slowly arched a brow, giving her an unimpressed look. It seemed they exchanged that look a lot. “You want to try lying to the profiler again, or do you want to hit me with the truth this time?”

Garcia let out a sigh and ran her hands through her hair, pushing on her knuckles again but not successfully cracking them. “I just… don’t want to get used to it.”

Rossi frowned, shifting a little so he was facing her a bit more. “What do you mean?”

“You know, colors.” She shrugged. “Choices. Possessions.” She shrugged again, forcing nonchalance into her voice and body language. “I’m not like Spencer. Even if you do magically get your way and free the geniuses, I’ll just be put on trial and then have to serve out the rest of my sentence for the crimes that got me caught in the first place. Why get used to colors again when I know what’s coming?”

Rossi frowned a little deeper, brow furrowing. “You think we’d let you go to prison when this is all said and done?” He gestured toward the computer. “Any sentence you get you’ll serve by working for us.” He tilted his head slightly, catching her eye and smiling kindly. “You’ve done a great job, kid, and you haven’t done anything to make us think you don’t genuinely want to help people. We gave Spencer a room of his own and told him he could stay. Why wouldn’t we do the same for you?”

Garcia put on a cheery façade and waved it off. “Psh. You can’t afford me, _Mr. Rossi._ ”

Rossi looked at her for a long moment, examining her body language. Her shoulders were tight, and her arms kept returning to a crossed position over her chest that seemed to be for self-protection. Her fingers dug into her upper arms, and despite the smile on her face and the humorous words, there was a fearful shine to her eyes.

Rossi stretched his arm over the back of the couch, assuming a relaxed stance that reflected in his tone and facial expressions. “Look, _kid_. I don’t know how to tell you this, but you’re stuck with us. You don’t want to trust in our charity or good-heartedness or whatever, that’s fine; I get that. I wouldn’t trust us, either. But in our line of work, when the shoe fits, you wear it as long as you can.” He gestured with his free hand as he spoke. “Most people don’t know that much about their coworkers, but we can’t afford to do that. We need the kind of trust most people don’t, and when you add a piece to a team and it still works like a well-oiled machine, you hang onto it.” He shook his head with a smirk. “You aren’t going anywhere, kid, even if you want to. So… do me a favor, and the next time JJ offers to take you shopping, go with her.”

Garcia looked at him for a long moment, and then she looked back at the laptop. “Maybe.” She put her hands on the keys and, after another second of hesitation, began typing again.

Rossi pursed his lips with a nod, satisfied. “Maybe’s fine. I’ll take a maybe.” He dropped his feet back to the floor and got to his feet with a grunt. “I’m gonna call Hotch and give him an update. Maybe he’ll let us steal Spencer so we don’t have to go through all these files by ourselves.”

“Mm.” Garcia didn’t offer much more, and the lines drawn on her features said she was still chewing on what Rossi had said.

That was fine. Rossi was a patient man. Patient and very, very determined.

He might need another glass of wine, though.

* * *

“Ugh, my eyes are watering.”

“I think my brain is watering.”

Emily reached up and dabbed at her eyes, looking around with her face scrunched. She put a hand over her mouth and took a few steps back. “We need masks.”

Morgan nodded in agreement and stepped back right alongside her, neither of them having made it more than one step over the threshold.

Emily had smelled a lot in her time. Rotting bodies, old blood, fresh blood, feces, urine, sewers, burning flesh, formaldehyde… name a rancid odor associated with the job, and she had probably smelled it more than once.

But the _bleach_ in that room. It was overwhelming.

It was overwhelming, and it was frustrating. They had been hopeful when they got a warrant to search the location where the allegedly euthanized geniuses were sent, but it looked like someone had put bleach in a power washer and gone to town.

“Okay, let’s focus on what this tells us.” Emily lowered the mask over her head but let it hang around her neck, not quite ready to return to the room. “Either someone knew we were coming, or someone took enough initiative to clean this out just in case.”

Morgan nodded in agreement, wrestling briefly with his own mask. “Either way, we should look into anybody from ICAP who had to be contacted or located for questioning.”

Emily wet her upper lip and lifted her mask, turning toward the open door as she began to think. “Could it be MSD?” she said after a moment, moving toward the cloud. “We know all the drivers for ICAP fell off the grid at one time or another, but I didn’t look into the supervisors or managers of those drivers.”

Morgan snapped his fingers and stopped to let her through the doorway first. “Didn’t Michael Evans say something about special training and extra pay? We should look into that, too.”

Emily nodded and pulled out her cellphone, typing a text to send to the whole team while Morgan started meandering around the white room. _Dear Team,_ she thought to herself with no small amount of irritation. _We need to look into literally everything. Sincerely, Emily._ That wasn’t what she actually wrote, of course, but it was an accurate summation of her feelings regarding the investigation.

“Prentiss?”

Emily looked up from her phone, waiting for him to continue.

Morgan pointed to the floor, brow furrowed. “What’s this look like to you?”

Emily walked over, glancing down at her phone a few more times to finish her message and send it. “Uh…” She shoved the device in her pocket and crouched down, tossing her head to get her hair away from her face. “That… looks like a table was there.”

Morgan nodded his head, pointing to the four, faded squares on the speckled, white linoleum. “Some autopsy tables have one large base, but plenty of them have normal table features like this.”

“So, they sent the geniuses they killed somewhere outside ICAP to get special genius autopsies? Why?” Emily glanced up and looked around, immediately spotting another rectangle of square imprints on the floor just a few feet away. “There’s another one.” She frowned as soon as the words left her mouth. “Why two?”

Morgan started walking over to the wall, running his gloved hand along the surface in search of any anomalies. “What do you mean?”

“If this is where they sent the geniuses they put down, why are there two tables? One table makes sense enough, but killing geniuses was supposedly a rare occurrence. Why would they need two?”

Morgan snorted, and Emily could hear the smirk in his voice when he replied. “Don’t you mean two ‘alleged’ tables for the ‘allegedly’ euthanized geniuses they ‘allegedly’ sent here?”

Emily gave a snort of her own and let her attention wander over the next part of the floor. “Yeah, right.”

‘Allegedly’ was Section Chief Jason Bale’s favorite word. It was quickly becoming Emily’s least favorite.

Emily let out a sigh and turned around, looking at the pristine, white walls, floor, and ceiling in frustration. “We should leave this to the forensics team. There’s nothing here.”  

“Well, we’re here. Let’s check the rest of the building.” Morgan straightened up and left the wall alone. “Just because they moved the stuff out of this one, it doesn’t mean the stuff isn’t here. It’s not a big place, but there’s gotta be a closet, a bathroom…”

“Let’s check the hall.” Emily pointed and started walking. “There’s only one way in and out of this room, and it would have taken a lot of wrangling to get a table out that door. They might have hit the wall, maybe left some mark or residue… maybe something dripped onto the floor while they were carrying the stuff away.”

Emily came to a stop just outside the door and dropped her mask with a sigh. “Man, if we don’t find something…”

“We will.” Morgan stopped beside her, lowering his own mask and looking around. “I go left, you go right?”

“Sounds good.” Emily crouched down and started looking at the floor, running her finger along the seal where the baseboard met the carpet.

_It’s like an office building, inside and out. Nothing about it seems even remotely suspicious. Not too big or too small, not too old or too new, sidewalks clean but not pristine… no security on the front door, just a normal lock, and the windows have blinds that are down but open… it’s secure and private, but not so much that people would get curious about what might be hidden inside. It’s the pinnacle of average._

Emily stood up with a grunt, slipping one glove off and reaching for her pocket.

“You get a reply?” Morgan called from his half of the hall.

“Not sure. I think I felt it go off…” Emily trailed as she read the text on the screen. “What the…?”

“What is it?” Morgan had stopped what he was doing.

Emily turned to face him, still looking at her phone. “I just got a text from Hotch: ‘Doctor found a drug similar to heroin in Dallas’ system. Not enough to make him high, just residual, his last dose was two months ago, maybe more.’” Her phone vibrated with a new message just as she finished reading. “Hotch again. He says, ‘We’re testing all the geniuses, including Spencer. We think it might be ‘snow.’ New drug, just hit the streets, stronger than black tar heroin.’”

Morgan whistled long and low. “Holy…” He lifted a hand to his forehead and massaged a few times before tearing off his now-contaminated glove. “Okay. What are we looking at here? I mean, what is ICAP even doing?”

Emily shook her head slowly, rereading the message and trying to process and reorganize the information. “I have no idea…”

“Come on, let’s think general goal here.” Morgan shrugged his shoulders. “My guess is money. We know some of the geniuses made weapons, and if they’re behind a new kind of highly-addictive street drug, that’s two major sources of money right there.”

Emily felt a sick, sinking feeling in her stomach. She lifted her eyes to meet Morgan’s, and she nodded her head toward the room. “What if the geniuses aren’t sent here after they’re euthanized? What if they’re killed here and then have their organs harvested?”

Morgan sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. “Michael Evans found Julia alive. We thought it was a fluke, but ICAP could have sedated the geniuses enough that their body wouldn’t use up the oxygen inside the sealed box. You can get the human heart down to one beat per minute if you use the right stuff.” He gestured toward the room that reeked of disinfectant. “They could do the whole procedure if they wanted. There’s gotta be geniuses they’ve trained to be doctors. Get the victims here, put them on one table, get the patient on the other table… another big money maker, selling the organs _and_ performing the transplants.”

Emily closed her eyes for a brief moment, collecting herself, and then she nodded. “It fits the pattern. Cybercrime is another get-rich-quick crime, and plenty of geniuses are master hackers. Think about how much money Garcia alone could get for them.”

Morgan nodded, eyes intense and focused. “We should talk to Garcia about her special jobs. We’ve gotta know what they’ve been making the geniuses do.”

Emily looked down at the phone in her hand and hit the button to reply. “This is all over the place, Morgan.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes, not knowing where to start with her message. “Can ICAP really be involved in a little bit of everything?”

Morgan shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, I mean… flip the cause and effect. ICAP didn’t gather geniuses to commit these crimes, they had geniuses on hand and went from there. Geniuses like Garcia, who can commit internet crimes without being caught. Geniuses like Spencer, who can’t do a thing with technology but excel in engineering and biochemistry; best thing to use them for is drugs and weapons.” He once again indicated the room with the missing tables. “If they were killing geniuses to harvest organs, they wouldn’t do it so infrequently. I think they intended to put the geniuses down in the first place, and then they figured they’ve got enough medical geniuses to get one last golden egg out of the goose.”

Emily nodded slowly, chewing on her thumbnail. “That’s why it’s so hard to get any evidence. They aren’t going out of their way to buy or hire anything for these crimes; ICAP doesn’t commit the crime unless they already have what they need.”

“Their main resource is the geniuses themselves, and genius testimony can only get an investigation so far.” Morgan folded his arms over his chest, looking down at the floor as he got lost in thought. “We have to find whatever it is they went out of their way to buy or do. Somewhere along the line, they had to have needed something they couldn’t get from internal resources.”

“That brings us back to the MSD drivers who got extra pay and special training.” Emily exited the new message and went to her contacts list. “I’m gonna call Hotch and run this by him.”

Morgan snorted, a bitter smirk on his face. “Don’t forget, Prentiss. This is all _alleged._ We have no proof.”

Emily grit her teeth. “That word is going to be a trigger for me by the time this case is over.”

Morgan didn’t say anything, but the grim lines drawn on his face as he got back to investigating were answer enough.

_We’ll catch them. Somehow._

They had to.

* * *

JJ smiled warmly when she entered the hospital room, but it was immediately apparent that they would need more than a kind smile to get Hotch out of the room without incident.

“Hello, Dallas.” JJ waved slightly and brightened her smile. “My name’s Jennifer. I work for Agent Hotchner.”

Dallas looked at her with wide eyes the color of sage, his fingers curling around to grip Hotch’s hand a little tighter. He then looked up at Hotch, those same eyes full of questions he couldn’t ask.

JJ looked to Hotch as well, her smile dampening as the sadness of the situation started to sink in. “So, how are we going to do this?”

Hotch wet his lips, and despite the smile he kept on his face for Dallas, he seemed uncertain. “I have no idea.” He looked down at Dallas and spoke in the softest voice JJ had ever heard him use. “Dallas, I need you to listen for a second. Okay?”

Dallas blinked and stared.

Hotch took a breath. “I need to go away for a little while.”

Dallas immediately started shaking his head, pulling on Hotch’s hand.

Hotch spoke through the objection, staying soft and calm. “Dallas, I promise, I will be back. Okay? I will.” He reached out and pushed the sweaty bangs back out of Dallas’ face. “But I want to help you, and I can’t help you unless I get out there and bring down the people who hurt you. Okay?”

Dallas stopped shaking his head, tears already rolling down his cheeks. He cocked his head to one side with questioning eyes, and JJ breathed a silent sigh of relief.

_He’s willing to listen. Maybe this won’t be impossible after all._

“This is my friend, JJ,” Hotch continued, pointing to JJ with his free hand. “She is the nicest person I have ever known, and she will _not_ leave you. But you have to let me go so I can do my job.” Hotch released his grip on Dallas’ hand and slowly started to pull it away. “Okay, Dallas?”

Dallas didn’t let go. He looked up Hotch, eyes darting to the side occasionally, as if he were trying to figure out exactly what was happening. Then he jolted, shooting up in bed like mattress was on fire.

“Dallas, you have to rest.” Hotch shook his head, using his free hand to push on Dallas’ shoulder. “You have to rest. You’re hurt. Just lay down.”

Dallas held onto Hotch with one hand and frantically made a writing gesture with the other.

JJ glanced around and spied the pen and paper the hospital had been using. “Here,” she said softly, grabbing them and placing them on Dallas’ lap.

Dallas let go of Hotch’s hand—a minor miracle, and something that definitely indicated what he had to say was important—and started to write. He held it out to Hotch and rapidly tapped the number he had written.

 

_#9896-2163342_

Hotch looked at the number for a moment or two, and then he tore the sheet off the top and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll look into them. Okay?”

Dallas nodded a few times, eyes still glassy, and then he looked over at JJ with extreme trepidation in his eyes.

“JJ will take good care of you while I’m gone,” Hotch reassured.

Dallas didn’t seem convinced, but he held his own hand instead of reaching for Hotch’s again, so that was a good sign.

Or a bad one. It was hard to tell with Dallas.

Hotch let out a soft sigh and grabbed his go-bag from the floor. “I’m going home to grab a shower and a nap, and then I’m headed to Rossi’s.” He started for the door, patting Dallas on the leg as he passed. “Emily and Morgan are overseeing the investigation of the ICAP building, so if you can’t find me at Rossi’s, that’s where I’ll be.”

JJ nodded and watched him leave. “I’ll keep in touch.”

Hotch nodded his head and offered a faint, tired smile. “Thanks.” He disappeared from the room in a rush, successfully getting out before Dallas could change his mind about his new caregiver.

JJ turned back to Dallas and brightened her smile a little. “So, it looks like you and I are going to spend some time together.”

Dallas stared at her, his expression hesitant and calculating.

JJ didn’t let her smile waver. “I don’t have to stand so close, if you don’t want.” She indicated the nearby chairs with her head. “I can sit over there, or step into the hall…” She trailed off when Dallas held out his hand, his eyes pleading. “Of course.”

JJ smiled and gently took his hand in hers, surprised by his grip but not letting it show on her face. She didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on her hand, or the way it drifted to her other hand with an increasing note of fear.

_You poor thing… what did they do to you?_

Dallas turned his head to stare up at the ceiling, breathing carefully and clearly trying to keep himself calm. He squeezed JJ’s hand and swallowed hard, blinking at the off-white tiles with a quiet sniff.

“I’m sorry.” JJ gently thumbed the back of his hand. “I’m sorry you’ve had to face this alone. I’m sorry no one was there to protect you.” She pressed her lips together, tears burning the backs of her eyes. “I’m sorry you’re so scared, and I’m sorry you’re in so much pain.”

Dallas didn’t respond to the words, holding onto her hand in still silence.

JJ squeezed his hand and pulled her phone from her pocket, continuing to run her thumb over the back of Dallas’ hand as she typed out a text.

 

**_New Message_ ** _With everything that’s going on… I just wanted to make sure you know how much I love you… and remind you to come to me if you need ANYTHING… I mean it._

JJ blinked a few times to clear away the threatening moisture. “Do you, uh… do you like the silence, or would you prefer I talk?”

Dallas glanced at her only briefly, but the expression on his face was more curious than anything. Even in his fear, he was trying to take in his surroundings and figure out what the shift from Hotch to JJ meant for his situation.

JJ glanced down when her phone vibrated, a soft smile pulling on her lips.

 

**_Spence_ ** _Thanks, JJ! I love you, too!_

JJ tucked her phone back into her pocket, still smiling, and then she turned to Dallas. “So, there’s this guy I met on a case in Louisianna. His name is William LaMontagne, and… I think I might be in love with him.”

Dallas actually looked at her again, quirking a confused brow and listening intently.

“Let me just start at the beginning and tell you how we met. So, Will’s father was a detective, and years ago, he worked this case with a gender-swapped, Jack-the-Ripper sort of feel to it. He died before he could close the case, but Will…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is way overdue, but basically, it all boils down to me hating this chapter with every fiber of my being. Even now, I'm not happy with it, but after going through the five stages of grief, I arrived at acceptance and said, "Screw it." I hope it's not too disappointing for anyone.
> 
> I had a lot of fun digging up the numbers for Hotch's internal monologue, and basically my estimate for how many geniuses there are came from the estimated number of people in the United States with an IQ over 160. Wechsler came to 9,383, and Stanford-Binet came to 26,190, which is a sizeable gap. So, I made up an ICAP scale that produced the happy medium of 14,131. I then removed roughly one third of them to represent the geniuses who have managed not to get caught. I couldn't find the number of agents employed by the FBI in 2005, so I settled for more recent statistics.
> 
> Also, feel free to check out my Instagram (@spectacularspangles) to see some of my research struggle for this chapter. And cute pictures of my cat. Always cute pictures of my cat.


	14. Chapter 14

“Your Honor, we need to see what’s in that basement.”

“You don’t have _probable_ _cause_ to see what’s in that basement.”

Hotch turned his head to the right and glared at Section Chief Jason Bale with more fire in his stomach than he knew he could have without dying. “I wasn’t speaking to you.” He looked back at the judge. “We have results from the psychological evaluations indicating trauma in more than eighty percent of the geniuses, and of the bloodwork we’ve gotten back, which is more than half, sixty-two percent were on some kind of experimental drug.” He managed to keep himself from raising his voice, but it was hard to stay calm when he knew how important it was to get a foot in the door. “ICAP conducts its more questionable activities in the basement—”

“Allegedly,” Bale interrupted with a slight smirk. “You have no evidence of anything untoward happening in that basement. All you have is a group of geniuses telling you something they’ve _allegedly_ heard about _secondhand_ and would very much like you to believe.” Bale lifted a brow slightly, dark eyes glinting in the dim light of the judge’s chambers. “Which is exactly what the separation of geniuses from the general population was supposed to prevent.”

“I am not the general public,” Hotch replied evenly, eyes cold.

Danica Smith, a judge Hotch had worked with many times before, met Hotch’s eyes with an almost apologetic expression. “I trust your judgement, Agent Hotchner, and you’ve yet to bring me a case that wasn’t valid. But Chief Bale makes a good point. Even if they weren’t geniuses, hearsay is not enough for me to grant a search warrant for a facility that handles matters of national security.”

“Allegedly,” Hotch replied. “We have no proof of foul play because we have no records, and because we have no records, there’s no proof that what goes on down there is a matter of national security.” He was pulling rank, and he was on thin ice, but he kept going. He didn’t really have much of a choice. “At the very least, ICAP should be required to release some redacted documents on operations that are now closed.” He glanced at Bale and then looked back at Smith. “If we’re going to ignore the evidence that gave us access to the rest of the building in the name of national security, we need some kind of proof that the claims of national security are valid.”

Bale spoke up before Smith had a chance to respond. “Well, you don’t need to subpoena that.” He shrugged with an amicable smile. “I’ll gladly supply you with those documents.”

Hotch glared. _I’m sure you will._

Judge Smith didn’t see the glare and lifted an elegant eyebrow of her own. “You would be willing to do that?” she questioned, her tone both curious and suspicious.

“Of course.” Bale spread his hands slightly. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I have nothing to hide. I’ll admit not everything we did to contain the geniuses was legal, but it was all necessary. If it weren’t for the public outrage it would have caused, we would have moved to change the laws on genius management years ago.” He shrugged his shoulders slightly, and the smile on his lips melted into a smirk. “There’s no difference between protests against the practices of my staff and protests against police corruption and brutality.”

Hotch kept his mouth shut, wanting Bale to reveal as much as possible, but it was painfully difficult.

“There are a handful of legitimate cases where people abuse their authority or try to make a quick buck and put something harmful back on the street.” Bale shrugged. “It’s unfortunate, but it’s unavoidable. But in the majority of cases, what the police do is justified. ICAP is the same. Everything we do is necessary. We have to take extreme measures because geniuses are extreme threats. It looks bad to those on the outside who don’t fully understand the danger we prevent, but it’s nothing a little perspective can’t fix. If these documents can provide that perspective, I’ll gladly comply.”

If Hotch hadn’t been in a judge’s chambers, he would have rolled his eyes and said something like, ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,’ or ‘Well, you were right about the police, at least.’

What came out instead was much calmer and more professional, but still with a biting undertone. “I admire your attempt to cast doubt on the legitimacy of the case against you, but you don’t have a leg to stand on.” Hotch had no idea where Bale was going with the police argument, but he figured the snake was trying to create some sense of brotherhood. “You want to compare yourself to police officers?” Hotch had spent too much time as a prosecutor for that to work; the credibility of an arrest and the officer who made it was always one of the first things the defense attacked. “Being a cop is nearly three times as dangerous as other occupations, and more than half of police fatalities are due to violence against them. I believe we’re at… 150 cops who have died in the line of duty so far this year. How many of _your_ employees died on the clock this year, Chief Bale? And of those employees, how many were killed by geniuses?”

Bale folded his arms over his chest and arched a brow. “Is there a point in there somewhere, Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch held Bale’s eyes unwaveringly. “Cops have to be prepared for bodily injury and death every time they interact with the public, and they never know when it’s going to happen, but they would never be allowed to use experimental drugs on people or beat someone for talking out of turn.” He narrowed his gaze just slightly. “Your employees don’t face the same threat when interacting with geniuses, but you seem to think their measures are justified simply because, allegedly, geniuses could, potentially, manipulate them into doing an undefined illegal act that may or may not involve violence.” Hotch leaned a little closer, hardening his voice. “My point is this: the only way you can compare yourself with the police is if ICAP plays the part of the few dirty cops while the rest of the FBI represent the fellow officers being made to look bad.” He leaned back, turning his attention to the judge then. “And I think we all agree dirty cops warrant a thorough investigation.”

Smith sighed softly and shook her head. “I agree with you wholeheartedly, but there’s only so much I can do.” She looked at Bale. “It would be in your best interests to provide those documents forthwith. If you haven’t produced them within forty-eight hours, I’ll subpoena them.” Back to Hotch. “If you want a warrant for the basement, you’ve got to find something substantial, Agent Hotchner.”

It wasn’t the answer Hotch wanted, but it wasn’t the answer Bale wanted, either, and that was a step in the right direction. “I understand, Your Honor.”

“I’ll get right on it, Your Honor.” Bale got to his feet and flashed a smile at Hotch, reaching out his hand for a shake. “Here’s to keeping things civil.”

Hotch took the hand without hesitation, squeezing harder than necessary because he knew Bale would do the same, which Bale did. Hotch didn’t smile, and his tone was icy when he replied.

“Here’s to getting the job done.”

* * *

“I think you should make this an official thing. David Rossi’s Home for Wayward Geniuses.”

Despite the frustrating meeting with the judge, Hotch couldn’t help but smile a little when Emily cajoled and Rossi rolled his eyes. Rossi didn’t try to argue—there wasn’t really an argument to make—and that made Hotch smile a little more.

Spencer, Garcia, and Dallas each had a room at the mansion, and while it was initially a measure taken to keep them away from the ICAP personnel going in and out of Quantico for questioning, all three seemed to be comfortable with the arrangement.

Well, Dallas was never comfortable, but he didn’t seem to be _un_ comfortable. He stayed in his room, folding origami for hours on end, venturing out from time to time to watch the other occupants of the house from a crouched position in a corner. Something would inevitably scare him—like an unexpectedly loud laugh or an approaching car—and he would scamper off to his room again. But he seemed to be doing well, and the hospital was pleased by his progress.

Garcia still wore black and gray sweatpants, but she had added several… _enthusiastic_ sweatshirts to her wardrobe, and she had started painting her nails. She seemed lighter, despite being more determined than ever to sniff out something useful in the encrypted files, and Hotch often saw her smiling when she thought no one was looking.

Spencer was anxious to get back to his room, but until ICAP was handled, it wasn’t safe there. And Hotch wouldn’t keep Spencer somewhere he wasn’t safe. Still, Spencer seemed content enough in the Rossi household.

Speaking of which…

“Dave, is Spencer in his room?”

Rossi looked up from the sandwiches he was making, and though his mood was light, there were dark circles under his eyes that testified to the toll the case was taking. “Yeah. I told him we couldn’t get the warrant, and he stormed off. I tried knocking on his door, but…”

Hotch nodded in understanding as Rossi trailed off with a shrug. “I’ll talk to him.” He grabbed his glass of water and drained the contents before letting out a sigh. “Wish me luck.”

Emily chuckled and hid her smile in her coffee cup, choosing not to comment.

Rossi gave Hotch a teasing wave and then got back to making lunch for his kids.

Hotch allowed himself a brief smile and made his way to the staircase, finding his feet harder to lift than he remembered. _This case is sucking the life out of me._ He sighed. _But we’re close. It shouldn’t be much longer._

Hotch reached up and massaged his forehead before taking the same hand and knocking on the door. “Spencer, it’s Agent Hotchner. Can I come in?”

Spencer didn’t respond verbally, but there was a grunting noise that vaguely resembled a positive reply, so Hotch went ahead and let himself in.

Spencer was curled up at the head of his bed, wearing red sweatpants and a teal button-down over a black t-shirt with white paint splatters. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was holding a book, but his finger wasn’t resting on the page like it normally would when he was interrupted while reading. So, Spencer had just been sitting there staring at the words.

“Dave said he talked to you about the meeting with the judge,” Hotch started softly. He closed the door behind him and approached the bed, sitting down on the edge and giving Spencer a searching look. “He said you were upset.”

Spencer gave Hotch a weak excuse for a glare, his expression resembling a pout more than anything. “What did you expect?” He sniffed. “We _need_ to get in that basement, Agent Hotchner.”

“I know.” Hotch conceded with a nod, folding his hands in his lap. “We’re working on it, and we’re getting closer. Right now, Chief Bale is being required to release some redacted documents proving matters of national security really do take place down there.”

“He’s going to have those documents, though! He’ll have fake ones already made!” Spencer snapped the book shut and tossed it aside, sitting up with angry tears in his eyes. “He’s going to release the documents, and then we won’t have anything!”

Hotch frowned slightly. “That’s not true, Spencer. Between Garcia’s hacking of the financial records and—”

“We have to get into the basement _now,_ Agent Hotchner, before he makes it all disappear, like he did with the facility in Bethesda!” Spencer looked at Hotch with pleading eyes, falling somewhere between desperation and demand. “You have to find another way. You have to, I don’t know, break in or something!”

“Spencer, we can’t _break in._ Everything we find would be fruit of the poison tree.” Hotch turned slightly, pulling one leg up onto the mattress with him and reaching out to take Spencer’s hands. “What we need to do is be patient. Garcia is still unencrypting files, there are more psychological and physical evaluations being processed, and Dallas gave me—”

“It’s not going to be enough!” Spencer shouted, jerking his hands away. “Chief Bale is going to find some way around it, and he’s going to clean everything up, and he’s going to take me back, and—”

“You’re not going back, Spencer.” Hotch met Spencer’s eyes intently and shook his head. “You’re _never_ going back.”

“You don’t know that!” Spencer ran one hand through his hair while the other scratched his face. “You don’t know that. You can’t. Not for sure.”

“I can, and I do.” Hotch opened his mouth to argue further, but then he closed it. He looked at Spencer for a long moment, and then he held out an arm. “Can I give you a hug?”

Spencer looked at Hotch suspiciously, like the limb was some kind of trap. “Agent Hotchner… we have to _do_ something…”

“I know.” Hotch gave a single nod. “Can I give you a hug and help you calm down first?” He raised a questioning brow and scanned Spencer’s face, waiting for the almost imperceptible nod of permission.

Spencer gave it.

“Okay.” Hotch scooted a little closer and pulled Spencer against his side. “Take a deep breath for me.”

Spencer did as he was told, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. He took another breath and did the same thing. He took a third and started to yawn, reaching up to cover his mouth.

“Still can’t sleep?” It wasn’t really a question. “Because of the case?” Neither was that.

Spencer rubbed his eyes and inhaled again, letting the air out in more of a whimper than a sigh. “I don’t wanna go back, Agent Hotchner.”

“You’re not going back, Spencer. Okay?” Hotch rubbed Spencer’s back and shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension. “I’ve kept investigations open on much less than what we have now. I know it’s frustrating, and I know you’re scared, but I need you to have a little faith in me.” He gave Spencer a tight smile but quickly sobered. “If it comes down to it, I will find a way to get you and Garcia and Dallas off the grid. Maybe you can go out to Montana and be with Michael and Julia.”

Spencer shook his head, eyes glassy but tears not falling. “I don’t wanna go to Montana. I wanna stay with you, and JJ, and Morgan, and Agent Rossi, and Agent Prentiss, and I wanna help the other teams, and I wanna work cases, and—”

Hotch startled slightly when two arms suddenly wound around his neck, but he quickly adjusted his hands to catch Spencer’s weight.

“I just want to stay with you!” Spencer shouted, kicking the headboard angrily.

“Shh, it’s alright. It’s alright, Spencer.” Hotch eased Spencer into a fuller hug, turning his body to enable a closer embrace. “I really, truly don’t believe it will come to that. I just want you to know that, even if you don’t necessarily _like_ the circumstances, they still won’t be ICAP. You are never going back to ICAP.”

Spencer pressed his forehead against Hotch’s neck and sniffed quietly. “If… if you did have to send us away to keep us safe… would you forget about us?”

Hotch shook his head, gently rubbing Spencer’s back and sides. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t stop until I took ICAP down and brought you home.”

Spencer seemed comforted by Hotch’s words, but he didn’t smile or relax. Overall, he was still unsettled, tense and shifty and somewhat out of breath.

“Spencer…” Hotch let out a sigh and ran his fingers through Spencer’s hair before rubbing Spencer’s back again. “Just hang in there for me, alright? We’re getting closer. I just need you to trust me and hang on a little while longer.”

Spencer didn’t say anything in response, but he pressed himself against Hotch and dropped his head to Hotch’s shoulder. Hotch continued to rub Spencer’s back, looking up at the ceiling as if he thought it might have the answers he was looking for.

_I don’t know how much longer he can do this._

And Spencer wasn’t the only one. Garcia was faring well enough, along with Charlie and many other geniuses who had lived fairly normal lives prior to their incarceration, but Dallas and the other geniuses who had been in ICAP since childhood were feeling the negative effects of the ongoing investigation. Hotch had gotten a call from Dr. Bengal less than twenty-four hours earlier informing him that two geniuses had to be admitted to the hospital for severe panic attacks, and another had been placed on suicide watch. They wanted— _needed_ —their structure back. But Hotch couldn’t give them a structure that was safe and healthy until ICAP was dismantled or fixed.

_We have to close this case as soon as possible._

How, he didn’t know, but once Spencer was calm, Hotch was going downstairs and getting right back to the drawing board. They needed something to get them in the door, and they needed it immediately. They needed it days ago.

_Just a little longer, Spencer. Just hang on a little bit longer._

* * *

_There’s something here I’m missing._

Hotch shuffled through the papers once more, setting aside the ones he was almost certain had been created specifically to give him a headache. He grabbed the more pertinent sheets and began to leaf through, skimming the words he had already read at least twice and hoping something new would pop out at him.

 _Dallas has never had a disciplinary sanction in the entire time he’s been at ICAP._ Which was an undetermined amount of time, because Hotch had yet to find the documentation of Dallas’ admission. _They provided documents saying the removal of his vocal cords was medically necessary,_ which Hotch didn’t believe for even a second, _so I assumed they removed any infractions from his record to hide proof of motive, but…_

But that didn’t fit with what he knew of ICAP. If anything, they added non-existent infractions to the record of any genius they wanted to keep away from the public.

_“Allegedly.”_

Hotch shook away the echo of Bale’s infuriatingly smarmy voice, running a hand through his hair. _Focus. Wouldn’t someone as traumatized and unpredictable as Dallas be the kind of genius they want to have on record as disobedient? Or did they assume his behavior would keep anyone from renting him?_

No, that couldn’t be right. ICAP didn’t seem to assume much of anything.

Hotch sighed softly and opened the desk drawer to his left, digging through the stack of files for a moment before withdrawing Spencer’s catalogue file. He leaned back in his chair and opened it up, scanning the contents.

It had been about four months since he had first looked over the file, agonizing over whether to rent Spencer or try for someone else. Amazing how quickly things changed.

 _Most of this is subjective. Saying he doesn’t work well with people isn’t technically incorrect… saying he doesn’t like to be contradicted isn’t, either… it’s just an incorrect interpretation of his behavior._ Unfortunately, Hotch couldn’t make a case on an incorrect interpretation. _They said he doesn’t like being told what to do._

Well, that couldn’t have been more wrong. Spencer craved structure and certainty; a clear set of orders made him breathe a little easier. He didn’t like being told what to do in a few, choice circumstances where the things he was being told to do were painful or frightening.

_But again, not technically wrong._

Sure, Hotch could use the blatant misdiagnoses to question the legitimacy of the psychiatrists and psychologists who worked for ICAP, but that wasn’t going to get him get into the basement.

Hotch let out a sigh when his phone rang, and he tossed Spencer’s file on top of his cluttered desk. He grabbed his phone and flipped it open without looking at the caller ID.

“Hotchner.”

“Agent Hotchner, this is Dr. Bengal.”

Hotch immediately straightened up, suddenly much more interested in his phone call then the files in front of him. “Dr. Bengal.” He pulled a pen and a legal pad from his desk drawer, adding to the ever-growing stack of dead trees. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh, well, at the risk of sounding completely crazy, I wanted to tell you there’s a… situation with our lab right now.” Dr. Bengal sounded slightly flustered, which was odd for him, and it piqued Hotch’s interest in an uneasy way.

“What kind of situation?” Hotch cautiously inquired.

Dr. Bengal cleared his throat. “Well, you see, there were two bodies that were damaged to the point where we couldn’t get fingerprints or dental records, so we sent out some samples for DNA testing.”

“Okay.” Hotch rolled his hand to urge a faster report. “And?”

“Well, ah, we got the results back, and one of the victims is a Sheryl Woods, taken by ICAP from her home in southern Alabama in 1991.”

Hotch squinted, increasingly confused and frustrated. “Okay. What’s significant about that?”

“Sheryl Woods is in Room 341.”

Hotch stopped, took a moment to process the statement, and slowly approached the obvious line of questioning. “Is it… a complete match or a near match?”

“Complete. It’s the exact same DNA.” Dr. Bengal sighed, seeming slightly less frazzled than before, but still clearly upset. “We’re sending more samples to nine different labs, and we’re going to have our lab double and triple check, just to be sure, but—”

“You already ruled out twins?” Hotch didn’t like the feeling he was getting in his gut.

“Sheryl Woods is thirty-three. Our DNA sample came from a pelvic bone belonging to a pre-pubescent female. My guess would be nine or ten; twelve at the most. She is neither a twin, nor was she alive in 1991.”

Hotch frowned, his brow creasing. “I…” He shook his head. “Dr. Bengal, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“This could just be a mistake,” Dr. Bengal said quickly. “If it were happening under normal circumstances, I would suspect a screw-up at the lab. But given the nature of your investigation and the other evidence we’ve found of human experimentation… I just wanted to let you know it happened, and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear back from the labs.”

“Yes, thank you.” Hotch blinked, unsure of how to respond to the news. “I’ll be in touch.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and hit the red button, staring at the device for a few moments in silence.

 _Cloning? That’s…_ It was something out of a science-fiction movie. Sure, there were labs all over the world looking into the idea, and some even claimed they had done it, but as far as Hotch knew, no one had ever been able to present an actual clone.

_Though, if you were going to attempt a feat like that, access to government funding and a building full of brainwashed geniuses would be your best shot._

Hotch pressed his lips together and considered calling Rossi—considered ordering Garcia to discreetly look into it—but he ultimately put his phone aside and got back to work. He didn’t know for sure the lab hadn’t made a mistake, and he didn’t want to send Garcia in the wrong direction when they had more concrete leads for her to follow.

Namely, finding record of the weapons tests ICAP conducted overseas. Or even on American soil, depending on the type of weapon or who it was sold to. As long as it was a potential threat to national security, Hotch would take it.

 _We’re so close._ Hotch heaved a sigh and picked up the papers on Dallas, rubbing his forehead as he settled in for another round of reading. _We’re almost there. We just need one little push… one more chip to tip the scales…_

Hotch frowned when his phone started vibrating in his hand. _It can’t be Dr. Bengal already._ His frown deepened when he saw Rossi’s caller ID.

“Hello?” Hotch answered.

“Spencer’s gone,” was the blunt reply.

Hotch buffered for a split second, heart freezing. “What?”

Rossi sounded surprisingly calm when he answered, but Hotch could hear the tension in his voice. “He said he had a headache and wanted to turn in early; that was about thirty minutes ago. I just came up to check on him, and his tracking anklet is here, but he’s not, and the window’s open.” Rossi barely took a breath as he listed the details. “No signs of a struggle, and his shoes are missing. I would bet my next book deal he ran away.”

It took Hotch all of two seconds to process what Rossi said and figure out what had happened. He swore out loud and jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “I know where he is.” He grabbed his car keys from the desk and made a beeline for the door. “Does anyone else know?”

“No.” Rossi replied. “I called you first thing.”

“Good.” Hotch didn’t bother with the elevators, wrenching open the door to the stairwell instead. “Let’s keep it that way. Don’t move the anklet.”

Rossi didn’t say anything for a moment. “I take it he’s up to no good?”

“He’s panicking.” Hotch could only hope he was fast enough to keep that panic from compromising the investigation. “I’ll handle it.”

“Better move fast, Aaron.”

_Yeah, no kidding._

* * *

Hotch couldn’t think of a more nerve-wracking, muscle-tensing, gut-clenching, heart-pounding scenario. He tried—while approaching Spencer from behind and praying he wouldn’t be seen—but he couldn’t come up with anything. Not with Spencer standing less than fifty yards away from the front gates to the ICAP facility.

_Spencer, I swear, if I get my hands on you…_

Hotch glanced back at his car and found it was adequately hidden by the thick row of trees that lined the road. He had parked on the side of the road right before the turn that led to the ICAP building, which was about as close as he could get without giving himself away. The distance he had to go on foot afterward felt like a thousand miles when he was only halfway to Spencer after a minute and a half of walking.

Spencer, who was standing still, which Hotch hoped was due to second thoughts.

Hotch saw the exact moment Spencer made him—saw the jolt of tension traveling through Spencer’s shoulders—and cursed under his breath.

“Spencer.” Hotch spoke calmly and evenly, holding out his hands in a placating gesture as Spencer turned to face him. “Spencer, you aren’t close enough to the building to be caught on camera. Walk away with me, _now._ ”

Spencer bit his lip, hands bloody and trembling. He turned his head and looked at the building, and there was a pained expression on his face when he turned back to Hotch.

“Spencer.” Hotch continued to approach, still holding his hands out and speaking cautiously. “You know this is a bad idea. If a genius is caught breaking into the facility, all the suspicion we’ve managed to put on Bale and ICAP will be put back on the geniuses.” Hotch shook his head. “That isn’t what you want.”

Spencer looked back at the building again and started scratching. He looked back at Hotch, and when he did, he turned his body enough for Hotch to see the arm he was scratching.

Hotch barely contained the instinctive wince when he saw the deep gouge marks, and he could only hope the right arm was in a better state.

“If I get down to the basement, you’ll have to come get me, and then you’ll have probable cause,” Spencer tried softly.

Hotch shook his head. “Spencer, you know that won’t work. You’re too close to me, they’ll accuse me of being behind the whole thing, and we’ll have even more roadblocks than we do now.” He shook his head again. “This isn’t a good plan, Spencer.”

Spencer looked at the ICAP facility for a moment, and then he looked back at Hotch, tears welling up in his eyes. “They’re gonna make me go back,” he whispered, scratching a little faster before pulling his hand away and looking at it, as if he had just realized he was tearing off his own skin. “They’re—” He looked at the building. “I don’t wanna go back.”

“Spencer, listen to me.” Hotch juggled his frustration and sympathy, half wanting to choke Spencer for not listening and half wanting to hug Spencer and do all he could to take away the fear. “You are _not_ going back to ICAP. _Ever._ ” Hotch was just a few yards away, and Spencer still hadn’t reacted to his approach. “Spencer, look at me.”

“I don’t—” Spencer looked at Hotch, then at the building, and then at Hotch again. “I don’t want to go back there, Agent Hotchner.” Back to the building, back to Hotch. “I don’t wanna go back.”

“This will not help you stay away from ICAP.” Hotch shook his head emphatically, slowing to a stop in front of Spencer and cautiously reaching out. “This is going to make them want you back even more. This is the kind of thing that will force me to send you to Montana.”

Spencer let out a soft whine, flinching but not resisting when Hotch took him by the arm. “I have to stop them,” he whimpered, looking at Hotch with wide, glassy eyes. He was terrified. “I have to stop them before they get me again.”

Hotch shook his head, “You can’t, Spencer. Not like this, and you know it.”

Spencer looked back at the building, tears dripping from his jaw.

“We’re going to stop them, Spencer. We are.” Hotch shook his head again, pulling on Spencer’s arm. “But not like this.”

Spencer pulled away and shook his head, slow at first and then almost frantic with speed, eyes never once leaving the building. “They’ll hurt me.” He said it again, louder, growing more panicked. “They’ll hurt me. They’ll hurt me. I don’t—I can’t go back. I can’t—”

“Spencer—” Hotch tried to grab Spencer’s free arm, but Spencer whipped it out of reach. “Spencer, you aren’t—”

“I can’t go back, they’ll hurt me!” Spencer finally tore his eyes away and looked at Hotch, stumbling backward with a frightened cry. “I can’t go back!” He pulled on the arm Hotch still had and pushed with his hand at the same time, desperate to get away. “I can’t do that again! Eating the same food every day, and reading the same ninety-six books week after week after week for years—” he jumped back when Hotch reached for him again, “—and not talking to anyone, and not seeing the sky; not seeing—not seeing _anything_ but the walls and the hallways and the lights—” he kept breathing harder and faster, feet pushing against the pavement, tears rolling down his cheeks, “—and they’ll take my MP3 player and my book, because I’ve been bad, and then I’ll have to go to the library to read, and I’ll have to sit there and _look_ at people and not get to talk to them, because—because if I do, it’s the belt and the stun gun—”

“Spencer.” Hotch got a hand on either shoulder and shook him. “You need to calm down.”

“—and the medication and the needles and the touching—”

“Shh, shh, shh.” Hotch shook his head. “Spencer. Spencer, listen to me!”

“—and the _silence_ and the ringing and the solitary—”

“Spencer! Stop!” Hotch grabbed Spencer by the arms and shook him hard. “Just stop for a second and listen to me.”

Spencer craned his neck, trying to look at the building. “I don’t wanna go back.” He started resisting again, a fresh wave of tears welling up. “I don’t wanna go back!”

Hotch felt water droplets on his own face, but as upset as he was, he knew he wasn’t crying. _It’s going to rain._ But he didn’t dare take his eyes off Spencer to check the sky.

“I don’t wanna go back!”

“Spencer, _no one_ is going to make you go back. Okay? No—”

“They always make me go back!” Spencer curled in on himself as he pulled away, like he wanted to sit on the ground and run away at the same time. “No matter how smart I am, they always catch me, and they hit me, and they put me in my room and make me stay there, and they leave me alone for days, and I can’t do that again, I can’t go back!” Spencer jumped when thunder cracked, loud and sudden, and his yelp dissolved into a sob. “And I was really, really bad. I know—I know I was bad, I was—I was bad, and I don’t want—” he gasped and hiccupped through his words, slowly losing his speech to the hysterics he had been not-so-successfully fighting off for the past ten minutes. “I don’t—wan—na g—go back!” He sucked down a lungful of air and sobbed, “Please!” drawing the word out until it melted into tears.

“Spencer.” Hotch took Spencer’s face in his hands and shook it lightly, meeting Spencer’s eyes and expressing as much sincerity as he possibly could. “Spencer, look at me. Look at me, and hear what I am saying to you.” Hotch shook him again, thumbing away the tears on Spencer’s face. “You’re not going back. You’re never going back.” He continued, not giving Spencer the chance to object. “And I know you don’t believe that, and I know you’re scared, and that’s not your fault, but it’s true.”

Spencer’s lip wobbled, chest and shoulders heaving when he took in air. His eyes dropped down, and Hotch beckoned them back up with another little shake.

“Hey, look at me.” Hotch shook his head. “It’s _not_ your fault that you feel this way.” He combed Spencer’s hair back out of his face and then cupped Spencer’s cheek again. “Your father walked out when you were little, and your mother was unpredictable on her best days. When you were twelve, your entire world was turned on its head, and you were handed over to an authority who used you and abused you.”

Spencer screwed his eyes shut and took a few sharp breaths, sobbing the air back out. He forced his eyes open and tried to look at Hotch through his tears, blinking rapidly as rainwater joined the saline on his face. He was just so _scared_.

He was so scared.

“Your life has been a series of people, who you were supposed to be able to trust, letting you down. Your Father. Your Mother. ICAP. Even Garcia, and many other geniuses, who would be in your life for a time and then leave you, even if it wasn’t their choice.” _Maeve,_ Hotch thought, but bringing her up would be disastrous. “Spencer, you’re a _genius_ , and you came down here with a plan you knew couldn’t work. You’re scared, and you’re not thinking about consequences. You’re afraid to get your hopes up again, because you’re afraid I’m going to let you down like everyone else did, and you can’t bear that. Not again. So you’re doing whatever you can to prevent it.” Hotch shook Spencer’s face, leaning in close and making deliberate eye contact. “But I am _not_ going to let you down, Spencer. You don’t need to do this. You don’t need to be afraid. I’m not going to let you down.”

Spencer sniffed and blinked rapidly, face twisted up in confusion and pain. His shoulders slouched, eyes dropping down and to the side, throat tight. “I’m so tired of being scared,” he whispered. “I’m so, so tired.” He screwed his eyes shut and sobbed again. “I’m so _tired,_ Agent Hotchner.”

“I know you are.” Hotch was vaguely aware his suit was soaked through and he was standing outside, at night, in November. “I know.”

Spencer took a shuddering breath and reached up to grab one of Hotch’s forearms, pushing his cheek into Hotch’s hand. “I keep thinking I see them outside.” He shook his head. “My heart races every time the doorbell rings. I have nightmares about them coming for me.” He opened his eyes only to shut them even tighter. “Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I feel lethargic, and I’m afraid I’ve been drugged so I won’t be able to fight back.”

Hotch felt fresh tears splash against his thumb, bloody fingers gripping his arm.

“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t…” Spencer forced his eyes open and blinked rapidly, looking up at the sky before meeting Hotch’s eyes hesitantly. “But I can’t go back. And I don’t know what to do.” His eyes welled up again, and he shook his head. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I just—” He pressed his face into Hotch’s hand some more, shoulders shuddering beneath his dripping-wet hoodie.

“Come here,” Hotch said softly, pulling on Spencer just the slightest bit.

Spencer looked at Hotch, processed the offer, and immediately fell into Hotch’s arms. He latched on to Hotch’s neck and buried his face in Hotch’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer sobbed, squeezing Hotch even tighter. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I just don’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

“Shh, I know.” Hotch let out a soft sigh and rubbed Spencer’s back. “Let’s get somewhere warm and dry, and then we can talk and figure something out.”

Spencer didn’t ease up. “I don’t want to let you go.”

“It’s pouring, Spencer.” Hotch rubbed Spencer’s back, feeling the clammy skin of Spencer’s forehead against his neck. “We need to get inside.”

“How do I know you won’t leave?” Spencer shook his head, taking another step and pressing his entire body against Hotch’s. “How—how do I know you aren’t—lying to me?”

Hotch wet his lips and swallowed, lifting one of his hands to pet Spencer’s hair. “You have to trust me.” He sighed softly. “I’m sorry. I wish there was a better answer. I wish there was a statistic or study to give you, but there isn’t.” He squeezed Spencer tightly. “You just have to trust me.”

Spencer shuddered, and even over the volume of the thunderstorm, Hotch could hear the sniffing and quiet pants. “Do you—do you hate me?”

“No,” Hotch replied firmly. “I do not hate you. I could never hate you.” He shook his head. “I was angry with you for coming here, and we’re still going to talk about your actions, but… I understand you were afraid.”

“I’m still afraid,” Spencer whispered.

“I know,” Hotch replied softly.

“What if I’m always afraid?” Spencer breathed. “What if it never goes away?”

“It will. It might take a while, but I promise you, one day, it will go away.” Hotch squeezed Spencer once again, not knowing how else to relay comfort. “This isn’t permanent. This is a place in your life you’re just passing through.” He let out a soft sigh. “You don’t belong here. This isn’t where you’re staying.”

Spencer let out a soft cry, and while he offered no objection, Hotch knew Spencer was far from stable. But before Hotch could offer any more help, he had to get Spencer somewhere safe and warm and far, far away from the ICAP building.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

Spencer didn’t say anything, but he didn’t resist.

Hotch was fine with that.

* * *

 “I—I thought we were going home.”

Hotch put the car in park and looked up at FBI headquarters. “We are.”

Hotch turned off the engine and grabbed the keys from the ignition, glancing at Spencer as he reached for the door and doing a double-take when he saw pure terror.

“Please, Agent Hotchner…” Spencer had a white-knuckle grip on the door handle with one hand an identical hold on his seat with the other. “Please, I’m sorry. I won’t disobey you again, I prom—”

“Spencer.” Hotch pressed his lips together for a moment, considering how to proceed, and then he slowly opened his mouth. “I need you to trust me. I need you to show me that what happened tonight will not happen again, because even if you’re scared and don’t understand, you still trust me to do what’s best for you.”

Spencer stared at Hotch for several seconds, eyes wide with fear, and then he looked over at headquarters. He swallowed hard, slowly releasing his death grip on the seat and opening the door. He looked at Hotch again, visibly shaking, uncertainty written plainly on his features.

Hotch gave him an encouraging smile and a single nod.

Spencer nodded back and relinquished his two-handed hold on the door, carefully getting out of the car and shutting the door behind himself. He moved slowly despite the rain still coming down in buckets, walking around the front of the car and waiting for Hotch to meet him.

Hotch moved considerably faster as he got out, and with a gentle hand pressed against Spencer’s lower back, Hotch urged him up to the building. Hotch scanned his card to let them in, and then they went down to the gym, shoes squeaking on the tile flooring all the way.

“A hot shower will warm us up.” Hotch turned on the water in one of the showers and then stepped back, turning to face Spencer. “Let me help you with your sweatshirt.”

Spencer looked down at himself—namely, at his bloody hands and forearms—and he eventually moved closer and let Hotch help him. They worked together to maneuver both the hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it up and over Spencer’s head, and while they did their best not to hit or rub his arms, the mere removal of the sweatshirt sleeves had the deep scratches oozing again.

“As soon as we’re done showering, we’ll get a first aid kit.” Hotch offered a brief smile. “Just clear away as much blood as you can without scrubbing at the wounds. Be gentle with yourself, alright?”

Spencer mutely did as he was told, and once he was showering, Hotch stripped down and got in the neighboring stall. It wasn’t five minutes before the water running to the drain between them turned a pale red color.

“Spencer, are you alright?”

For a second, there was nothing, and then Spencer let out a quiet sob. “I can’t stop scratching. I—I can’t—”

Hotch immediately turned off the water in his stall and stepped out, grabbing a nearby towel. He didn’t really need to bathe, anyway—he wasn’t the one covered in blood—he just wanted to warm up.

“Spencer,” Hotch started, wrapping the towel around his waist. He tugged on the door and found it open. “Let me see.”

Spencer looked up from where he stood under the flow, and it was impossible to tell if his reddened neck and face were caused by the heat of the water or his shame. He hung his head and extended his arms, a brighter shade of red than before, fresh blood pooling over the old and running off with the water.

“Okay, you’re warmed up enough. Let me get another towel.”

Once Spencer was dry with a towel around his waist—and a towel he kept pressed to his arms by hugging it to his stomach—Hotch got himself dry, and then they both went upstairs. Hotch joked that there hadn’t been much of a point in warming up when they had to walk through an air-conditioned building to get to clothing. Spencer didn’t really respond. Spencer didn’t really say much of anything until he was sitting on his bed having his arms bandaged.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Hotch looked up at the quiet, crackling voice, and gave a sympathetic smile.

Spencer’s face was red and raw from crying, and while the earlier fear was gone from his eyes, there was still a confusion and hesitance hidden in the honey-brown shades.

“You and I are alike in that we feel more at home here than anywhere else.” Hotch continued to wrap the gauze around Spencer’s arm, keeping the bandage on that perfect line between tight and loose. “I think the only stability you’ve ever had that you actually enjoyed was when you first started staying here. You knew what you had to do, who you had to do it for, and despite the stressors that would come and go or linger in the background… I believe you felt safe here, overall. You have good memories in this room.”

Spencer lifted his eyes from his arms and looked around the room, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his mouth for a fraction of a second. “Yeah…”

“I know you like it at Rossi’s, but I also know Rossi’s house is not home.” Hotch shook his head slightly, his hands going through the motions of bandaging. “And your room there is not really your room. This is your room.”

Spencer’s eyes wandered over the room a little while longer, and then returned his attention to his arms. He watched Hotch tape the gauze down and then dropped his arm into his lap with a quiet sigh.

“Does that feel okay?”

Spencer nodded numbly, his expression growing vacant. He looked so tired and rundown, with dark circles under his eyes and tangled, wet hair clinging to his face. He had been through too much, too fast, and he wasn’t taking it well.

“Spencer—”

“I really am sorry for sneaking out.” Spencer stared blankly at his lap, the fingers on his bandaged arm twitching rapidly. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Yes, well, you say that quite a lot.” Hotch admonished as gently as he could, but he couldn’t _not_ address the disobedience; not when he considered everything that was at stake. “You were sorry about the Owen Savage case, and you were sorry when you lied about your insomnia, and you were sorry when you took Ritalin behind my back after I told you not to—”

Spencer’s head hung lower with every accusation, tears falling and shoulders shuddering as his cries returned. Hotch simply cleaned Spencer’s second arm as he spoke.

“—and you were sorry about being the mole, and now you’re sorry about this. You’re always sorry, and you always promise it won’t happen again, but we keep winding up here, and this time, you almost cost yourself _and_ the team _and_ the other geniuses a lot.”

Spencer nodded tearfully and sniffed, reaching up with his free hand to wipe his eyes. “I know.” He sniffed again and swallowed. “I know. I’m s…” He sobbed. “I know.”

Hotch fell silent as he applied antibiotic cream to the wounds, trying to decide how exactly to proceed. He wanted to make Spencer understand the severity of what had almost happened, but he didn’t want to punish Spencer for being scared and distrustful. That was hardly fair, and it certainly wouldn’t fix the dangerous behavior—if anything, it would make it worse.

“Are you gonna spank me?”

Hotch was caught off-guard by the question, and he was opening his mouth to ask where it came from when he remembered their conversation at the café.

Hotch slowly closed his mouth, considering his words, and then he reopened it. “Do you think you _should_ be spanked?”

Spencer nodded his head woefully, eyes on the floor, shoulders slouched.

Hotch pursed his lips and continued to wrap Spencer’s arm. “Why do you think that?”

Spencer sniffed. “I was bad.” He wiped at his eyes. “I disobeyed.”

“Did you disobey because you were angry?”

Spencer shook his head and sniffed again.

“Did you disobey because you thought you knew better?” Hotch kept his tone plain rather than curious or accusatory, his hands working a roll of gauze around Spencer’s arm. “Or because you didn’t feel like listening to me? Or simply because I told you not to do it?”

Spencer let out a soft cry and shook his head. “No.” He wiped his eyes again, and Hotch had to wonder if Spencer was ever going to run out of tears. “No, I was—I was just—”

“You were scared.” Hotch wrapped the gauze around for the last time and grabbed the tape. “When I found you, you weren’t walking toward the building. You had stopped. Why?”

Spencer sniffed yet again, drawing in on himself until his frame looked much smaller than it actually was. “I knew it was a bad idea. I knew I was gonna get caught.” He clenched his jaw and screwed his eyes shut. “I didn’t want you to be mad at me. Or disappointed.” He uttered a quiet sob. “I don’t know. I was scared. I don’t know.”

Hotch put the unused medical supplies in the first aid kit and set it aside, grabbing a fleece sweater from the floor. “Here.”

Spencer took the shirt with shaky hands and started to put it on, careful of his bandages.

Hotch waited a moment and then inhaled, speaking softly and kindly. “Spencer, I’m not going to punish you for something you almost did because you were scared.”

Spencer looked at Hotch, rubbing his tears on his sleeves. “You aren’t?”

“No,” Hotch replied. “I’m not.” He stood up then, leaning down and grabbing the blankets with a soft smile. “I will, however, tuck you in so you can get some sleep.”

Spencer looked up at Hotch with wide eyes, hope and fear fighting for dominance in the shades of hazel and gold. He blinked, sniffed, and then slowly eased himself onto his side before rolling onto his stomach and settling down on the mattress.

Hotch smiled to himself and placed the blankets over Spencer’s body, tucking the blanket around his shoulders. “There.” He rubbed Spencer’s back a few times and then went to put the first aid kit away, fully intending to sit in the bedside chair and play with Spencer’s hair until he fell asleep.

“Agent Hotchner?” Spencer whispered, peering up from underneath half-dried and still-tangled bangs. “When we were at the hospital a few days ago… we were talking, and you said… that you loved me.” Spencer blinked a few times and sniffed. “Do you… still love me?”

Hotch barely managed to keep the expression of pain off his face, and the pain in his sternum demanded attention, but Hotch kept his hands at his sides and simply smiled. “Of course I still love you, Spencer.”

Spencer drew idle patterns on the sheets with his finger, his eyes dropping down to watch the movement instead of Hotch’s face. “Even though I was bad?”

“Even though you were bad.”

Spencer sniffed again. “And even though I snuck out and ran away?”

“Even though you snuck out and ran away.”

Spencer swallowed. “And even though—”

Hotch silenced Spencer by placing a gentle hand on his head. “Even though.” He leaned down and planted a chaste kiss on Spencer’s temple. “I still love you.” He leaned back a bit and smiled, still resting his hand on Spencer’s head. “Do you still love me?”

Spencer nodded, eyes wide with wonder and hope.

“Good.” Hotch pushed the hair away from Spencer’s face without attempt to comb his fingers through it, knowing with the tangles it would cause more pain than comfort. “That’s good, Spencer. I’m glad to hear it.”

Spencer looked up at Hotch with watery eyes, and after a moment of indecision, he lunged forward and threw his arms around Hotch’s waist.

Hotch instinctively put his hands on Spencer’s back and shoulder, partly catching him and partly trying to offer comfort. “Shh. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer sobbed, shaking his head.

“Shh, I know. I know you are.” Hotch rubbed Spencer’s back, quickly realizing cleanup would have to wait until after Spencer was asleep. “I know. It’s alright.”

Spencer shook his head again, faster, and held on tighter. “I’m sorry I’m like this,” he cried, voice cracking halfway through the sentence. “I’m sorry I’m so broken and—and _wrong,_ and I’m sorry I don’t listen, and I’m—”

“Shh. Spencer, shh, it’s okay. Spencer—” Hotch was both ignored and interrupted.

“I’m sorry my brain doesn’t work right, and I’m sorry I cause so many problems, and I’m—I’m sorry you’re stuck taking care of me—” Spencer’s fingers curled through Hotch’s shirt, tugging on the fabric, pulling Hotch as close as humanly possible, “—and I’m sorry I act like a child, and I’m—I’m sorry I don’t make sense, and I’m—”

“Shh, shh, shh… Spencer, stop.” Hotch turned slightly and eased himself onto the mattress, pulling Spencer’s arms from his waist. “Shh, stop apologizing.” He tugged Spencer a little higher and pulled the shaking genius against his chest. “Shh. Shh…”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer breathed, drawing his arms in close and gripping Hotch’s shirt. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Shh.” Hotch pulled the blankets up and wrapped his free arm around Spencer, holding on tight. “Shh, enough. Stop apologizing.”

“M’sorry…”

Hotch leaned down a little and kissed Spencer’s forehead. “Shh.” He pulled his legs onto the mattress and resituated some pillows, leaning against the headboard and moving the blanket over himself as well. “Shh, just lay down. Get some sleep.”

“Sorry…” Spencer hiccupped a few times and settled into Hotch’s arms, drawing his knees toward his chest. “Sorry.” He squirmed a little, trying to situate his body as close to Hotch’s as he could. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Hotch gently ran his hand up and down Spencer’s side, trying to ease him into a state of sleep. “Stop apologizing, now, and go to sleep.”

“You won’t…” Spencer moved again, tucking his head under Hotch’s chin. “You won’t let them take me away?”

Hotch put a hand on Spencer’s head and held him close. “No, I will not let them take you away.” He returned to stroking Spencer’s side.

Spencer let out a shaky sigh and began to relax on top of Hotch, a tremor running through his body. “And they… they won’t hurt me anymore?”

“They are never going to hurt you again, Spencer.” Hotch rubbed Spencer’s back some more, smiling to himself.

“Don’t…” Spencer slurred through a few syllables, losing himself to sleep. “Don’t leave me… Agent Hotchner… please?”

“I won’t.” Hotch pushed Spencer’s hair back out of his face yet again. “I won’t leave you. I’ll stay right here. If you wake up, and I’m not here with you, it just means I’m using the bathroom or cleaning up the first aid kit or something similar. Alright?”

“Alright.” Spencer let out a heavy sigh, his body melting against Hotch’s. “Alright…”

“Alright.” Hotch smiled to himself and settled in for what he hoped would be a long night of sleep for the both of them.

_Don’t worry, Spencer. We’ll have what we need to get into the basement soon._

That, he promised.

* * *

Emily cast her eyes over the steel walls and fluorescent lights as she stepped off the elevator, taking in the empty room and its four doors. She had no idea what they were going to find, but she knew—with every fiber of her being, right down to the marrow of her bones—that it was going to be the stuff of nightmares.

Hotch gave Emily a nod, and she approached the swiped the card before punching in the code they had been given. There was a hiss, and then the metal door slid open. Hotch ducked in, and Emily followed right after, Morgan on their heels with six other agents.

It was about the size of a football field, maybe a little longer, with the same steel walls as the room before it. It was full of gymnasium and medical equipment; machines to test every kind of physical capability and machines to monitor what affect it had on the subject. Once they got past that, there were several medical chairs, like the kind one might see at the dentist. There were cabinets and lockers that no doubt held any number of supplies, and down toward the end, there were glass rooms with warning signs and more equipment inside. It looked like that section was used for x-rays and MRIs and other similar procedures.

But there were no people, so Hotch called out that it was clear, and the group moved back out to go to the next room.

That one was much smaller and very clearly an operating room. Emily was no doctor, so she couldn’t say if all the gruesome-looking tools were legitimate surgical equipment, but it gave her a chill down her spine either way.

That room was also empty, so they cleared it and moved to the next one, which was a mirror image of the one before it. They cleared it and moved to door number four.

Emily swiped the card and entered the code.

There was a hiss, and the door slid open.

And every agent recoiled at the smell.

They collectively leaned back and turned their heads, swallowing around their gag reflex. Emily refused to breathe for a moment, and then she slowly eased air into her lungs, trying to adjust to the smell with limited success.

“They must have put more geniuses down.” Emily cleared her throat and swallowed. “We arrested the workers before they could send the bodies out on an MSD truck.”

Hotch frowned. “Weren’t they in heavily sealed containers?”

Emily didn’t have a chance to reply before Morgan pushed between them, a look of horror etched onto his face.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“Morgan?” Hotch frowned. “What is it?”

Morgan couldn’t take his eyes off the hallway of doors. “This is the same layout as the floors where they keep geniuses. Every one of those doors has four blocks inside, and every block has four cells.”

Emily’s jaw dropped. “No one said anything about there being _live people_ in the basement.”

Yes, they had cleared the rooms, but that was in case someone had snuck down to destroy evidence before they got there. There had been nothing to indicate there would be people _trapped_ in the basement.

“No one was allowed down here after the explosion; how long has it been?” Hotch didn’t give anyone a chance to answer his question, speaking into his radio instead. “We need multiple ambulances to the ICAP facility. We don’t know how many yet. We’ll need the coroner, too, and—”

Hotch was cut off by a distorted, “What?” coming through the speakers.

Hotch shook his head. “I’m going up to get a better signal. Search the rooms.”

Emily nodded and immediately moved into the hallway. She opened the first door on the right, using the same card and code, and Morgan took the lead.

Morgan stepped into the new hall and aimed his weapon at the first door on the right, just in case. “Go ahead.”

Emily used the card and code again and then followed Morgan into a T-shaped hallway. Morgan took the left side with three agents while Emily took the right side with the other three.

“Looks like the individual cells don’t require a number.” Emily swiped the card and handed it over her shoulder to the agent behind her. “Pass it on.”

It took a second, but the door opened to a little room with a bed, a stainless-steel toilet, and a dresser with two drawers. It wasn’t quite a prison cell, but it was close.

Emily didn’t see anybody inside, so she leaned forward slightly to look into the only corner she couldn’t see from the doorway. _Oh, God._

“Hey, sweetie,” Emily started, cautiously approaching the young girl curled up in the corner. “Are you—?”

“You’re not authorized to be down here.” Solid white marbles stared at nothing, and the girl’s voice was flat and dead. “Who are you?”

Emily holstered her weapon and crouched down. “My name’s Emily. I’m with the BAU.” She scanned the girl and guessed about thirteen or fourteen for her age. “What’s your name?”

“0716.” Her voice was monotonous. Her face was lifeless. “Why are you here?”

“We’re here to investigate what ICAP has been doing to the geniuses,” Emily explained softly, moving a little bit closer. “We’re here to help you.”

“We need water. It’s been 223 hours since we got any.” She turned her head ever-so-slightly. “One of your agents just opened the door to 0937. He’s been dead for two days. Used too much water with his crying.” Then, with the faintest note of scorn, “Never did know when to shut up.”

“Alright, well…” Emily was lost for words, and she struggled with herself for a moment before turning to the agent behind her. “Stay with her. I need to talk to Hotch.”

Emily got to her feet and left the room, noting that the other three doors were open and being investigated. She got the card from Morgan and stepped out just as Hotch entered the hall, gesturing for him to follow her as she opened the door across the hall from the block she had just left.

“Rossi is on his way with JJ, and Strauss is going to get some reinforcements sent down here.” Hotch sighed softly. “How bad is it?”

“Bad. They haven’t had water in over a week. They’re all going to need to be evaluated at a hospital. I spoke with a girl who said one of the people on her block is dead, but I didn’t confirm it.” Emily barely took a breath, stepping into the block she had just opened. “They have all their doors open, so I’m going to start on these.”

“Let me get an update from Morgan, and I’ll join you.”

Emily nodded her head and went for the first door on the right, preparing herself for whatever she might see.

As soon as it was open, a body fell out.

Emily cursed under her breath. It was a man in his twenties, curled up in a fetal position, and from the way his arm and fingers had stuck after rigor mortis set in, he had been clawing at the door when he died. Probably pleading for water, thinking he was being punished for some unknown transgression.

Emily gave him just a brief moment of silence, and then she turned to the door behind her, opening it up and hoping for a better sight.

“Twenty. Twenty, did you hear that?”

Emily’s eyes were immediately drawn to a figure huddled in the far corner with a blanket over them. It sounded like a male, but it was a bit high, so she couldn’t be sure.

“Somebody came in. Do you think the test is over?”

Emily slowly approached the figure. “Hey, there.”

“Ooh, it’s a woman. Twenty, do you like women? I do.”

Emily briefly wondered whether it was best to reach for her weapon, given how unstable the genius appeared to be.

“Hello, stranger,” came the voice from the blanket. “Did you come here for the test?”

“Uh, no. No, I came here to help the geniuses. My name is Special Agent Emily Prentiss.” She flashed a quick smile despite the fact that he couldn’t see her. “What’s your name?”

“Lollipop. You can call me Lolli. Everyone does. Because I like lollipops. Twenty doesn’t. Twenty doesn’t like lollipops at all. Can you get rid of the bugs?”

“Well, that depends,” Emily said cautiously, hearing footsteps behind her. “Can you take the blanket off so I can see you?” She glanced over her shoulder to confirm it was Hotch standing behind her.

“Umm, but I like the blanket. Because the lights hurt.” They moaned quietly. “They hurt. Everything hurts. I don’t like this test. I want—I want the medicine to stop now. Can you make it—Can you get rid of the bugs? I hate the bugs.”

Emily looked over her shoulder as Hotch entered the room, a helpless expression on her face. _He must be on one of the experimental drugs. Or… maybe withdrawaling from them?_ She looked back at the genius. “If we get you some sunglasses, would that help?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Twenty, shut up! I’m pretty sure Twenty is the only one who’s real. All the others come and go, and I’ve found inconsistencies in what they say and do, but not with Twenty. So far, I think you’re real, too. I hope so, anyway.”

Emily felt her heart clench. “Well, I hope so, too. I was real the last time I checked, and I’d hate to be wrong about that.”

They rocked back and laughed, causing the blanket to get tucked under their legs when they rocked back forward. “You’re funny. I like you. Can I get better now?”

“Do you… do you know how to make you better, Lolli?”

“Medicine. There’s good medicine and bad medicine. I need the good stuff. I can—” Suddenly, they toppled over, thrashing around and wrestling the blanket off. “I hate these bugs! Make them go away! I hate them, I hate them, I hate them!”

It was a boy, somewhere in his late teens, with scars and open wounds on every patch of exposed skin. It became instantly apparent where the wounds came from.

“Get them off, get them off!” Lolli rolled on the ground, scratching furiously at his face, neck, and arms. “Make it stop!”

Emily wet her lips, not knowing what to say but knowing it was probably dangerous to try and approach, even with Hotch there for backup. “We’re going to get you some help, Lolli. Alright? Help is on the way, and they are going to do everything they can to help you feel better.”

Lolli yelled at the ceiling incoherently, slipping into gibberish and other languages and gibberish _in_ other languages as he scratched at his face and pulled on his hair.

Emily looked at Hotch with wide, questioning eyes. _What do we do?_

Hotch only stared back with an expression of helpless anger and sadness.

Emily looked back at Lolli and wet her lips. “Lolli, can you try to stop scratching your face for me?” She didn’t think it would work, but she had to try.

She had to do something.

“Lolli, can you please stop scratching for me?”

Lolli rolled onto his side and stuck eight fingers into his mouth, chewing on them with a thumb sticking out on either side. “Stop?” he mumbled around his fingers, staring up at her with wide, chocolate eyes. “I can try.” He bit down hard.

Hotch muttered a quiet curse under his breath and approached the young genius, crouching down and taking Lolli’s wrists into his hands. “Lolli, you can’t bite, either. Prentiss.”

Emily immediately recognized the order for help, and she rushed over, joining Hotch on the ground and taking one of the wrists. “Lolli, give me your hand, okay?”

“But—” Lolli squirmed, pulling on both of his hands and trying to bite them once more. “But the _bugs_. Twenty? Twenty?” He looked around, frantic. “Twenty’s gone! Where did he go? Twenty?”

Emily kept holding the wrist she had taken, her other hand coming up to cup Lolli’s cheek. “Hey, look at me. Look at me, Lolli.”

Lolli whimpered and peered up at Emily with glistening eyes. “But—but Twenty—”

“He’s not real, Lolli. Remember how you said the others weren’t real?” Emily gently thumbed Lolli’s cheek, the pad of her finger running over the ridges of scabs. “He wasn’t real, either.”

Lolli looked at her for a long moment, his expression turning pained, and then he quietly asked, “I’m still on the medicine?”

Emily glanced at Hotch, but she was the one with rapport, so Hotch said nothing.

Emily looked back at Lolli and met his eyes, trying to keep his attention. “You are, Lolli, but we’re going to help you get off it. Okay? We’re going to help you.”

Lolli pulled on his hands again. “No, you’re—you’re lying—”

“No,” Emily insisted, shaking her head. “No, we’re not lying. You’re going to be off it. We’re going to take you to a hospital—”

“A hospital?” Lolli asked in a small voice.

“Yes, with real doctors, and they’re going to help you get better.” Emily held firm when Lolli tried to pull his hand again. “They’re going to be here soon, alright?”

“A hospital? A hosp—” Lolli threw himself backward suddenly, letting out a shout. “Get them off! It’s burning, _please,_ just—just make them—” He broke off into a desperate scream, thrashing on the floor and clearly trying to throw off whatever creatures his brain had put on his skin.

Emily and Hotch quickly transitioned Lolli into a laying position, holding him down and keeping his hands from scratching at his exposed skin.

“Lolli, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Emily tossed her head to get her hair out of her face. “It’s okay, Lolli. You need to calm down.”

“Get’em off! Get’em off!” Lolli kicked his feet against floor and arched his back, but between Hotch and Emily, he didn’t get anywhere. “Get them off _, please!_ I _hate_ bugs, I _hate_ them!”

Emily rubbed gentle circles on Lolli’s sternum and stole a glance at Hotch. “Do we have a mirror? Or can you pull up a camera on your phone?”

Hotch shook his head, grunting as Lolli threw his weight again. “I can’t reach my phone without letting him go.”

Emily blew her bangs out of her face and looked over her shoulder. “How far away are the medics?”

“I don’t know,” was Hotch’s slightly-out-of-breath reply.

Emily looked back at the thrashing, crying genius and tried to get his attention. “Lolli! Lolli, listen to me. We’re going to get rid of the bugs, okay? We’ll get rid of them. We’ll make them go away.”

Lolli only sobbed, sucking air between his teeth, the hue of his eyes almost completely hidden by wide-blown pools of black in the center.

“Prentiss, he’s on Mars,” Hotch muttered. “Someone needs to find out what these geniuses are on. We need to find a file room or laboratory or _something._ ”

Emily wet her lips and nodded, getting her feet beneath her but staying crouched and still holding Lolli down. “Will you be okay with him?”

Hotch nodded. “If you pass any paramedics, send the first gurney to Morgan and the second one here.”

“Morgan?” Emily asked, moving back slightly and allowing Hotch to grab the arm she was about to release.

“He’s got someone over there on the verge of death.” Hotch nodded toward the door. “Go. Just go.”

Emily rushed from the room without another word, passing the dead genius in the neighboring doorway on her way out. She pushed any thoughts of pity or sympathy from her mind and left the genius-housing sector, returning to the first room they had searched.

_This looks like it might have files. They clearly ran tests here, and they would have kept records of those tests…_

Emily rushed through the room, tearing open cabinet after cabinet in search of anything that might be helpful. Some of them looked like they belonged in a doctor’s office, with stethoscopes and gloves and syringes. Others looked like they belonged in a gym, with elastic wraps and physical therapy tools and even more exercise equipment than was already on the floor. There was an area that had a break room kind of feel, though she couldn’t tell if it was for the researchers or the geniuses they were tormenting, and then she came to another.

_Jackpot._

It wasn’t files, but _vials._ Vials of drugs, all clearly organized, few of them with familiar labels. Emily left the doors hanging wide open to mark the area so she could direct the forensics team as soon as they arrived. She went to the next cabinet and found the same thing, so she left those open and moved on again.

She went through a few more cabinets of medical supplies, and then she opened a cabinet and found binders. Thick, three-ring binders, each labeled with a genius identification number.

Emily swore under her breath. _I didn’t even think to check Lolli’s door for his number._

“Emily!”

Emily perked up, JJ’s voice setting her right back on the warpath.

“JJ!” Emily called. “Did you find Hotch?”

JJ was already jogging the length of the room. “Yeah, he sent me to you. He said—”

Emily held out a hand and shook her head. “Go back! I need to know the GID of the genius he was with.”

JJ literally skidded to a stop, boots screeching against the metal floors as she pivoted on her heel and went back the way she had come. She wasn’t jogging that time—she was all-out running, blond ponytail flying out behind her.

Emily wet her lips and looked back at the books, giving the collection a onceover before moving to the neighboring cabinet. It was full of the same, but halfway down the shelves, someone had placed a 2004/2005 label with an arrow.

 _That entire cabinet, and the bottom shelves of this one, are all_ _from this year?_ Emily turned her head to the left and counted the cabinets lined up next to her. If all of them were full of binders, and if ICAP had been just as ‘productive’ during those years… then it only went back to 1998, or thereabout.

 _So, is that when the experiments began, or are there more documents somewhere else?_ Emily didn’t let the thought linger, quickly tucking the idea aside for later. _That’s a long-term investigation question. We need to keep these geniuses from dying first._

“Emily!” It was JJ again, running back to her. “It’s 9339163-0763!”

Emily immediately turned back to the shelves and started scanning. All the records were in numerical order, so she started at the end, scanned backwards, and…

“Here!” Emily tore the binder from the shelf and opened it from the back, leafing through until she found the first page of the most recent entry. “Okay, okay, okay… let’s see what we have.” She wet her lips. “This was the day before the bombing, and it talks about… drugs administered, right there.”

Emily opened the binder and took out the entire entry before closing the binder and setting the entry on top. “Make sure they take this to the hospital with Lolli. Their best shot at figuring out what is in his system and how to neutralize it is in here.” She grabbed a pen from her jacket and scratched down the nickname she had been given. “If he doesn’t respond to Leeland, it might not be cognitive. Make sure they know he goes by this name.” Emily handed the binder to JJ, heat flashing through her veins as she got to her feet. “Take that back to Hotch and Lolli, get forensics down here, and we need a separate line of communication specifically for telling me the GIDs of anyone having severe reactions to drugs. It can’t be cellphones; we can’t get a signal.”

JJ was nodding and walking backward with the binder in her arms, ready to bolt and carry out orders as soon as Emily finished.

“We’re going to need evidence bags down here; _tons_ of them. We’ve got about two standing cabinets of medications, and we’ve got to get them to independent laboratories ASAP.” Emily gave a sharp nod, slightly out of breath. “I’ll tell you more when I think of it.”

JJ nodded and turned on her heel, darting for the exit.

Emily got back to the cabinets, opening the long line she had been contemplating when JJ showed up. They were all, as she suspected, full of binders, and the first shelf of the first cabinet had tape that read ‘1989-1996 in File Room D’

 _So, they’ve been doing this almost since their inception._ But was ICAP created for the express purpose of genius experimentation, or was it just corrupted so completely and quickly that it never had a chance to establish any other practices?

_That’s another question for the long-term._

Emily went back to the binders she had left and started to look for any familiar GIDs. She didn’t see Spencer or Garcia, which she sent up silent thanks for, but she did notice something. Every GID began its four-digit portion with a zero.

 _What was that number…?_ Emily pulled her notepad from her pocket and flipped through, quickly finding the number Dallas had given to Hotch in the hospital.

 

_#2163342-9896_

Emily chewed her lip and shook her head, looking at the binders again. She squinted slightly, moving to the left and slowly working her way down the cabinets.

 _It looks like the zeros began in early 2001. Before that… there were all kinds of numbers…_ Emily continued to scan the spines of the binders, and she was quickly rewarded with the number she was looking for. _Here we go._

Emily grabbed the binder and had the cover between her fingers when JJ reentered the room with a forensics team on her heels. Emily set the binder on top of the cabinet it came from and left it behind, adding it to the long list of things to attend to when the more urgent matters were dealt with.

“Over here!” Emily waved a hand over her head, jogging to meet the team halfway. “These cabinets are filled with vials of medicine. We think most of them are experimental…”

More urgent matters, indeed. But the second they were dealt with, Emily would be back, and she would be out for blood.

That, she promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have reached a level of done with this chapter that transcends all earthly planes. 
> 
> For those of you wanting details about how the team got into the basement, that will be in the next chapter. 
> 
> Let it be noted that as much as I view Hotch as Team Dad and JJ as Team Mom, I also view Emily as Team Big Sister who Takes No Crap and surreptitiously looks out for her family by Viciously Destroying anyone who comes against them, with or without parental permission.


End file.
